Worth Living For
by Swanseajill
Summary: When Dean and Sam look into a series of suspicious deaths in a small Colorado town, they have no idea that their investigation is about to put Dean's life in grave danger. Dean whumping and Sam angst. Sequel to 'Three Little Words'.
1. Chapter 1

**Worth Living For 1/16**

by Swanseajill

**Summary:** When Dean and Sam look into a series of suspicious deaths in a small Colorado town, they have no idea that their investigation is about to put Dean's life in grave danger. (Sequel to _Three Little Words)_

**Characters:** Dean and Sam (with an appearance by John)

**Timeline:** Set eight months after Devil's Trap, so probably AU by now

**Spoilers:** Salvation and Devil's Trap

**Rating:** PG-13 (Genfic). A bit of cussing and difficult themes. Dean whumping, Sam angst.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters nor am I making any money from them.

**Author's notes: **Huge thanks as always to Angela who's worked hard on the beta for this story and must be sick to death of it by now!

This is for everyone who asked for a sequel to _Three Little Words_. I hope it lives up to your expectations. I think it can be read as a stand alone, but it would make sense to read Three Little Words first to understand why Dean is so emotionally and physically fragile at the beginning of this story.

The story is in sixteen parts. I'm posting five parts today and the rest over the next couple of days.

**Part One**

Sam came awake with a start. He sat up, eyes flying open and rapidly scanning the room around him. He grunted in relief as he took in the sparse, shabby furnishings and grubby curtains of the cheap motel room. The dark, damp warehouse he'd been trapped in a moment before was just a memory – albeit a memory of a living nightmare he wished with all his heart had never happened.

There was a time when his nightmares had been identical, night after night. Jess, pinned to the ceiling, her face a mask of terror, flames surrounding her body. But for the past few months another image had often replaced the picture of Jess. Dean, face contorted in agony, lifeblood bleeding away into the wooden boards of a cabin floor. And now a new image had joined the collection. Dean, pinned against a wall, a hunting knife hovering over his chest as their father uttered the three words that spelled his death sentence.

Sam shuddered involuntarily and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, eyes moving anxiously to the other side of the room. Dean was still asleep, lying half on his side, propped up on a pile of pillows. Sam glanced at his watch. Nine a.m. Almost three hours since his brother had woken, shaking and sweating, from the third nightmare that night. As on the other occasions, Sam had sat beside him, offering silent support until the trembling stopped and he slipped back into sleep.

It felt like a lifetime, but only sixteen hours had passed since an old enemy of their father's had lured the three Winchesters to an abandoned warehouse. Sixteen hours since Manson had put his plan of revenge into action as they stood helpless, bound by a demon's power. _"Make your choice, Winchester. Which of your sons will live and which will die?"_

Sixteen hours since Dad had made his choice, and with three little words had blown a hole in Dean's heart.

Rubbing at eyes gritty from lack of sleep, Sam quietly padded across the room and squatted down beside Dean's bed. The blanket had slipped down around Dean's waist and Sam frowned as he scanned the bruises that stood out starkly against pale skin. Dean's back from left shoulder to hip was a mottled patchwork of blue and black. He was going to be in a lot of pain when he woke up, despite the succession of ice packs Sam had applied the night before.

After a moment of indecision Sam decided to leave Dean to rest, and quietly made his way to the bathroom. A shower would wake him up and chase away the lightheaded feeling caused by lack of sleep.

When he stepped back into the room a while later he found his brother awake and sitting hunched on the edge of the bed.

Dean looked up as Sam approached and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Morning, sunshine."

"Hey." Sam kept it deliberately casual. "How're you feeling?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, you look like crap," Sam commented honestly.

Dean's lips quirked up. "Yeah? Well, right back at you, raccoon man."

Sam had to smile. "We comparing bags now?"

"Did I mention bags? Not on this face, man. This face is smooth as a baby's ass."

"Just wait 'til you look in the mirror."

As Sam had expected, his brother's usual brash, cocky self had reasserted itself, replacing the emotionally vulnerable Dean from a few hours ago.

He'd rarely seen Dean as close to losing control as he'd been last night. Control was everything to Dean, who prided himself on his tough persona and was usually strong enough to preserve it, no matter what happened around him.

Knowing that, Sam had understood -- and backed off -- when Dean had made it clear he wasn't ready to deal with his feelings about their father's choice.

Mentally shaking himself out of his musings, Sam critically studied his brother. Dean really did look like crap. "Seriously, Dean, you don't look too good, man. Let me take a look at your back."

"Nuhuh. Hands off, dude. It's fine."

"Dean, you can't even straighten up.

"I'm just stiff. Seriously, I've been worse. Those ice packs did a mean job. So back off Florence Nightingale, and let me go take a shower. Unless you want to come in and scrub my back?" Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Thanks, I'll pass."

"Okay then. Why don't you start packing, then we can take off, get some breakfast on the road."

"Take off?" Sam frowned. "I was thinking we'd stay here a few days, give your back a chance to heal. It's not like we have a deadline."

"Dude, the trail'll be getting cold down in Four Pines."

"The suicides? You still want to look into that?"

"Why not? We were on our way to check it out before--" Dean stopped speaking, and something flickered in his eyes.

Sam regarded his brother carefully for a moment. The wall was back in place, but he could tell that its foundations were shaky.

He considered their options. On the one hand, it was totally stupid to take a road trip when Dean could barely stand. On the other hand, the idea of taking on a new case had merit. Dean needed something to focus on, to take his thoughts away from the events in the warehouse. The last thing he needed was down time that would allow him to sit and think.

"All right," Sam said finally. "We head for Four Pines, on two conditions."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "You're giving me conditions?"

Ignoring him, Sam began to count off on his fingers. "One – you take some painkillers before we leave."

Dean stood up slowly, grimacing as he tried and failed to straighten his back. "Okay. I guess I can live with that one."

"Two – I'm driving."

Dean's eyes narrowed but Sam squared his jaw and held his brother's gaze, arranging his features into his most determined look. "Take it or leave it, Dean. Actually, I really like the idea of spending the day here. We could watch some daytime TV…"

"Okay!" Dean growled. "You win." He motioned toward the bathroom. "I'm getting that shower."

Sam waited until his brother had pushed open the bathroom door. "Don't forget to take those painkillers."

He couldn't help but grin as Dean gave him the finger, just before the door slammed behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Worth Living For 2/16**

by Swanseajill

**Part Two **

"Dean! Dean, wake up!"

Dean jolted awake, jerking forward and biting back a gasp of pain as the sudden movement wrenched his back. "What's wrong?" he ground out, trying to orient himself and catch his breath at the same time.

"You were dreaming, man. You okay?"

Dean took a few deep breaths and looked away from his brother's scrutiny. He didn't need to see Sam to know that his face held the same expression of worried concern that had been present all morning. "I'm fine," he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Where are we?"

"Just turned off Highway 70."

Dean bit back a groan. Barely halfway to their destination. The headache he'd been unable to shake all morning still throbbed insistently at his temples, and every bump in the road sliced a sliver of pain through his back.

He was doing his best to behave as if everything was fine, and he thought he'd done a pretty good job so far. It helped that he no longer felt on the edge of breaking down. Last night… last night he'd been closer to losing it than he'd been in a long time. Most of his memory of those hours revolved around Sam — anxiously hovering, forcing Tylenol down his throat, and making up ice packs for his back. He didn't have the words to tell him, but he knew his brother had got him through those difficult hours, and the reassurance that he and Sam were okay with each other was pretty much the only positive thing he had to hold on to right now.

Yet whenever he allowed his thoughts to wander back to the warehouse, the pain and the hurt flooded back. In the past, he had always been able to keep his feelings carefully locked away, hidden from everyone, including himself. His feelings weren't important. The job was important and Sam was important. And Dad… he was important, too.

He shook himself mentally, angry at his lack of control. He just needed to pull himself together and get on with it. Sam had enough issues of his own without having to deal with this kind of emotional crap from his brother. He had to be strong for Sam. Had to keep it together for Sam.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he lied again, wishing it were true. His back had hurt badly enough lying in a comfortable bed. Now, after three hours on the road, the pain had intensified. He fidgeted surreptitiously, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Sam glanced at him sharply.

"Want to stop for a bit?"

Hell, yes, he wanted to stop. He wanted to hole up somewhere until the pain passed. Instead, he smiled reassuringly at his brother. "I'm good. It's only another couple of hours' drive. Let's keep going."

After a moment of intense scrutiny, Sam nodded. "Why don't you dig out that article, remind me what we're getting into?"

Relieved that he'd successfully averted another discussion about his well-being, Dean pulled out the local newspaper editorial that had attracted them to the small Colorado town of Four Pines.

"It's an editorial from the _Four Pines Gazette_. 'Killer Cottage' by Buck Weadle." He paused. "Catchy title, eh?" Sam smiled and he read on. "Rose Cottage on Anderson Avenue, Four Pines, has witnessed five deaths over the past three years. Coincidence? Or is something more sinister going on in our sleepy little town? Let us consider the facts – and the victims.

"Brad Warrington: electrocuted while fixing some faulty wiring in the cottage basement. Official cause of death — misadventure. Jamie Warrington, Brad's brother: found hanged in the cottage one year later. Official cause of death — suicide. Rhonda Adams: bled to death after cutting herself on broken glass. Official cause of death – misadventure. Wendy Metzler: drowned in a pond in the garden of the cottage. Official cause of death – open verdict. Bill Turner: broke his neck falling from the roof of the cottage. Official cause of death – misadventure.

"All these deaths took place within Rose Cottage or its grounds. Local law-enforcement officers are convinced that the connection to the cottage is nothing more than a coincidence. 'It _is_ a little odd,' admitted Deputy Sheriff Tommy Cartwright. 'But there's no evidence pointing to the likelihood of foul play in any of these cases. What we're dealing with here is a series of tragic coincidences.'" Dean looked up. "'A little odd '? That's an understatement."

Sam nodded. "Does it give any more details on the deaths?"

Dean scanned further down the editorial. "Nah. He just rambles on about five deaths being no coincidence. He ends with this: 'An unsatisfactory state of affairs, in the opinion of your humble editor. Is it not more plausible to consider the possibility that a serial killer is at work here in our little town? How many more people must die before someone decides to investigate the connection? But the sheriff's department refuses to reopen any of these cases, and who am I, a mere small-town editor, to question the mighty arm of law enforcement?"

"And that's it?"

Dean folded the clipping and put it back into his pocket. "That's it."

"Not much to go on, is it?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I'd say that five deaths in the same house within three years is a mighty big coincidence."

"Yeah, I guess. I don't buy the serial-killer theory, though."

Dean nodded. "If it is a serial killer, he's pretty inventive – a different MO for each murder. My guess is we're dealing with a spirit of some kind."

"Either way, I wonder why he… it… chose those particular people? They can't have been the only ones to visit the cottage in three years."

"Yeah, well, not much point in speculating 'til we find out more." Dean shifted in his seat again and Sam glanced at him.

"Why don't you try and get some more sleep. I'll wake you when we get there."

"Yeah, okay." Dean didn't intend to fall asleep, though. When he slept, he dreamed of the warehouse. But he knew Sam thought he needed the rest, and he wasn't really in the mood to talk, so he slumped down in his seat, folded his arms and closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Three**

Sam drove wearily down the main street of Four Pines. It seemed to be a typical small Colorado town: one main street with broad avenues branching off. White-capped mountains stood starkly at attention in the distance, and pine forests surrounded the town to the east and west.

He pulled up outside a brightly painted sign proclaiming, "Norma's Diner – best value in town" and killed the engine. He'd been driving for over six hours with only one break, and he was tired and stiff. He glanced across at Dean, slumped in the seat beside him. It was hard to tell under the shades if his brother was awake or asleep, but as the engine rumbled into silence Dean grunted and asked, "Are we there?"

"Yeah. Welcome to the metropolis of Four Pines. I thought we could grab a bite to eat first, maybe ask a few questions."

"Okay."

Sam winced in sympathy as Dean gingerly pulled himself upright, not quite able to hide a grimace of pain, and fished about in the glove compartment. "So, Sammy, who'd you like to be today?"

Sam shrugged. He hated the need for subterfuge when checking out a case, but there was no way they could just come out with the truth. "How about PI's, investigating one of the deaths?"

Dean seemed to consider, then shook his head. "Too risky. This is a small town — for all we know the whole town knew all the victims like family. How about we're freelance journalists, writing an article on unsolved mysteries of small-town America?"

"Think the relatives of the dead will want to talk to journalists?" Sam asked doubtfully.

Dean grinned. "I'll charm the young ladies; you can turn the puppy-dog eyes on the old biddies. We'll knock 'em dead, Sammy."

Sam tried to glare, but failed miserably and had to smile instead. It was good to see a glimpse of the old, cocky Dean. If Dean kept this up he'd be back to his obnoxious self in no time.

Until then, though, Sam couldn't help but feel protective of his brother. He had to force himself not to comment or offer help as Dean slowly, painfully got out of the car, instead contenting himself by walking ahead to the diner and holding the door open.

The diner was typically small town, lines of red Formica-topped tables lining one side of the room and the counter running the length of the other. It was still early, and there were only four other customers, two of them seated casually at the counter, looking like part of the furniture.

Dean and Sam took a table near the door and after a moment, a tall, gaunt-featured woman in her fifties ambled across with a pad in her hand and a pen above her ear.

"Evening, boys."

Dean whipped off his shades and smiled. "Evening," he glanced at her name badge, "Norma. Nice place you have here. Any specials tonight?"

"We always have specials," she said briskly. "They're on the board over there. Homemade meatloaf with fries or rock salmon fresh from the river."

"I'll take the meatloaf," Dean replied predictably, while Sam ordered the salmon.

Norma called in the order, and then returned to their table with a coffee pot in her hand. "Coffee?"

"Thanks," Sam said, and Dean nodded.

"You boys just passing through?"

"Actually," Dean said, "we might be staying for a few days."

Norma nodded. "Tourist Information two blocks down can tell you everything you need to know."

Sam said, "Thanks, but we're here on business, not pleasure. We're journalists. I — "

"Dean Kent," Dean interrupted smoothly. "And this is my partner, Lo — "

"Logan," Sam said quickly. "Uhh… Jimmy Logan." He scowled at his brother, who smirked while keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Norma.

"We're here about that story in the _Gazette_ – the one about the Killer Cottage?" Dean said.

Norma snorted. "You've wasted your time, then. Load a' crap. That Buck Weadle's a load a' crap. Buck Weasel, more like. Weasel by looks, weasel by nature and more full of crap than a truckful of buffalo."

Sam blinked at the colorful image, exchanging a quick glance with Dean, whose lips were twitching. He cleared his throat. "You don't think there's anything to his theory, then?"

"About the serial killer? Load a' crap, like I said. Not that I ain't sorry those folks are dead, but it was their choice to do what they did. I reckon they all chose Rose Cottage 'cause of some 'romantic' notion."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Romantic?"

"In my experience, them as chooses to take their own lives are the arty-farty types, like young Jamie Warrington. Always mooning about, that kid, writing poetry and that kind of crap."

"Uhh… so you believe all the deaths were suicides?" Sam clarified.

Norma shrugged. "Maybe not the first one, young Brad. But the others, I reckon so, yes. Just 'cause no one could prove it one hundred percent, don't mean they didn't off themselves, does it?."

"I guess not," Sam said. "So, do you know where we can find Mr. Weas… Weadle? We'd like to talk to him about his theory — even though it's probably a load a' crap," he added hastily, seeing Norma about to launch forth again.

She gave a cackle of laughter. "Only one place to find Buck these days. Charlie's Bar, a block up. He's there most nights, drinking himself into an early grave."

They were saved from commenting on this by the arrival of a new group of customers.

"Your food'll be with you in a few minutes," Norma said, and left them to welcome the new party.

"Colorful characters they have in Four Pines," Sam commented, once Norma was out of earshot.

"Yeah. She's something else." Dean grinned suddenly. "Jimmy Logan? Good recovery there, Sammy."

Sam felt himself coloring. "Don't start with me. I know where you were heading…"

"What?" Dean spread his hands, radiating innocence. "I was going for Lonny, but I like Logan much better." He leaned back and his face contorted in pain.

"Dean?"

"I'm fine," Dean said quickly – too quickly. "Moved too fast, that's all. Back's a bit stiff from all that time in the car."

"Did you bring your painkillers?"

"Nope. Left them in the car."

Sam fished in his pocket. "Good job I brought them, then... What?"

Dean was looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Thanks, Mom."

Sam grinned. "You're welcome."


	4. Chapter 4

**Worth Living For 4/16**

by Swanseajill

**Part Four**

"You know, we'd have had Norma eating out of the palm of our hands if you hadn't insulted her meatloaf," Sam commented an hour later, as they stood outside the diner deciding what to do next.

"I didn't insult her meatloaf," Dean said indignantly.

"You didn't eat it, either!"

"Yeah, well, I wasn't hungry." It was the truth. The meatloaf had smelled good, but he'd found that he had no appetite, despite having eaten next to nothing all day. He was dog-tired, his head still throbbed and the pain in his back had intensified. But Sammy didn't need to know any of that. "Anyway, Norma isn't my responsibility. I do the nubile blondes, remember? You're the one who's supposed to sucker the little old grannies."

"You think that battleaxe qualifies as a little old granny?" Sam asked, his tone incredulous.

"Well, I bet she's someone's grandma. Move your ass, Sam. I could do with a drink. Let's go visit Charlie boy and get acquainted with Mr. Weasel."

Charlie's Bar, a block further along Main Street, sported an innocuous entrance with a battered sign in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. It was full of what looked like locals – it was obviously not upscale enough for the tourists, and Dean had a suspicion that Charlie kept it that way deliberately to put them off. His patrons didn't look the types who'd enjoy the company of a bunch of overly enthusiastic hikers. His eyes lit up when he spotted a pool table towards the back of the room, and then he frowned in disappointment as his back twinged a warning. There was no way he was up to hustling pool tonight.

Sam nudged him, and then nodded toward the bar, where a man held forth to a small group of customers. Dean grinned as he remembered Norma's description. The man was probably in his mid-fifties, with a wiry build and small, sharp features. He certainly had the look of a weasel. And sure enough, Sam's inquiry of the bartender earned a nod in the man's direction.

They ordered a couple of beers and waited patiently until the group had dispersed before heading casually in Weadle's direction and introducing themselves. A promise of an acknowledgement when the story was published soon had Weadle happily divulging everything he knew about the Rose Cottage Killings, as he termed them.

"It stands to reason, doesn't it," he said. "Five people, all dying in one house?"

"What makes you think it might be a serial killer?" Dean asked.

"What else could it be? It isn't plausible that four or five people would off themselves in the same place, or kill themselves accidentally. I can't find any connection between them, other than Brad and Jamie being brothers, of course."

"So, the 'victims' had nothing in common, then?" Sam prompted.

Weadle shrugged. "Not that I can figure. First one was Brad Warrington, three years ago. Brad's father owns the house – Brad and Jamie were raised there. Kid was a high-flyer, college student, heading for the big time – at least, if you talk to his father. They said his death was a freak accident. He was home from college for the weekend, went down to the basement to fix the fuses – power'd blown out in a storm. When he didn't come back, Martin – that's his father – went down to find him. He was stone dead, with a live wire in his hand. Police wrote it off as an accident."

At the mention of electrocution, Dean carefully avoided catching Sam's eyes. He knew his own brush with death after killing the Rawhead still bothered Sam. "What about Jamie?" he asked quickly.

Weadle took a large swig of his whiskey. "Jamie was Brad's younger brother. Bit of a dreamer. Interested in poetry, and the like. Different from Brad as chalk from cheese, but the two of them were thick as thieves despite that. Jamie went a bit strange when his brother died — wouldn't go out, sat in the house all day long writing poetry. He died a year to the day after Brad. Official line is he killed himself – hung himself in the family room."

"But you don't believe it was suicide?" Dean asked.

"Someone could have come in and murdered him, just as easy."

"What did the police say?"

Buck snorted. "Police! Our sheriff's department couldn't investigate their way out of a paper bag. They said they couldn't find any evidence that anyone else was in the house – no finger or shoe prints. But that doesn't mean anything. If it hadn't been for the journal …"

"There was a journal?" Sam prompted.

"Yeah. Seems the kid kept a kind of diary. Don't know what was in it, but it seemed to convince the sheriff."

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, who simply shrugged.

Weadle plowed on. "And Martin – Martin just accepted it. Almost killed him, losing two sons within a year of each other. He still lives in town, though, works as a lecturer at the college." He swallowed the last mouthful of his whiskey and expectantly held out his glass.

Dean nodded to the bartender before exchanging a glance with Sam. They needed to get the rest of the information before Weadle was too tanked to make any sense.

"And the others?" Sam prompted.

"Rhonda, she was a local girl, left to make her way in the big city. Artist. I didn't really know her. But she was planning to come back. That's why she was at the cottage. She was thinking about renting it, wanted to check it out. They found her covered with glass, cuts all over her body and a large piece of glass sticking out of her throat. They said she must have tripped and fallen through the window in the family room."

"But you think it was murder?" Dean asked.

"That's my theory. Don't know why a girl like that would want to kill herself, so murder makes more sense. I tried talking to her best friend, Amber – she works down at a coffee shop on Walnut – but she wouldn't talk to me. Still too upset about her friend, I guess."

"When did she die?" Sam asked.

"About six months ago."

"Ok, so what about the others?" Dean wanted to move things along. Weadle's theories might be flawed, but they were getting good information. Sam was furiously scribbling notes, making sure they had all the facts recorded.

Weadle downed half his glass and licked his lips in appreciation before continuing. "Wendy Metzler was a Realtor at Parker Wilkinson. She was over at the cottage writing down the things that needed fixing – they were aimin' to fix it up a bit. It'd been on the market for a year but they couldn't sell it. Hardly surprising, with that history. Anyway, she drowned in the fish pond in the garden, a month after Rhonda. Again, they say she must have tripped, stunned herself when she went in.

"Bill Turner's the most recent – he died two weeks ago. He was over there doing some odd jobs for Parker Wilkinson – they still thought they could sell it, even after Wendy's death. They said Bill's death was an accident."

"Because?" Dean prompted.

"Because he'd been up on the roof, fixing some damaged tiles. He fell, broke his neck. But someone could easily have pushed him off, set it up as a suicide, right?"

"Right," Dean said dryly. The whole serial-killer theory was getting more and more unlikely by the minute. Weadle had not one shred of evidence to support it. Dean was beginning to wonder how many drinks the Weasel had had when he worked out his theory and wrote his editorial.

Weadle stared gloomily into his drink while Dean caught Sam's eye. Sam rolled his eyes and Dean nodded. They had all they needed for now.

"Coincidences," Weadle mumbled into his drink. "I never did believe in coincidences."

Dean nodded. "Neither do we."


	5. Chapter 5

**Worth Living For 5/16**

by Swanseajill

**Part Five**

"So, I reckon Norma's not so far off base," Dean commented as they stood on the sidewalk outside Charlie's Bar. "The Weasel's full of crap."

"Yeah, the serial-killer theory really sucks."

"Which leaves us with a restless spirit. Let's go take a quick look now, while it's dark."

Sam looked at his brother. The light of the lamp shining brightly over the doorway highlighted Dean's pale, drawn features. The pain lines around his eyes and lack of appetite at dinner were both a concern. It was unheard of for Dean not to clear his plate, but he'd only picked at his meal and Sam, who'd been starving, had finished off the meatloaf and half of Dean's fries in a bizarre reversal of usual roles.

Still, it was an unfortunate fact that Dean was used to working through pain. It would be some while before those bruises healed, and although Sam knew that Dean really needed to rest right now, he was equally confident that rest was the last thing on his brother's mind.

He thought it was worth a try anyway. "Dean, maybe we should just go check into a motel. It's been a long day, and there's no rush to scope out the cottage."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Roughly translated, that means that you think I look like crap and you want to tuck me in bed before I keel over. No way, little brother. We're checking out that shack tonight."

Sam debated standing his ground, but the stubborn set to Dean's jaw persuaded him to let this one go. He raised his hands in acquiescence, earning a smirk of triumph from Dean. He scowled back and followed Dean to the Impala.

They drove east out of town, following directions Sam had looked up on the Internet, and took a right onto Anderson Avenue just after the memorial park. The road ended in a parking area backed by a thick stand of trees and they left the car there, rather than conspicuously parking outside the cottage. They loaded a couple of guns with rock salt, just in case, and then headed back down the street.

Rose Cottage was the last house on the street, set well away from the road, screened from its neighbors on one side by a stand of mature evergreens. At first sight, the house was an unremarkable, square, whitewashed building with a veranda at the front. Ordinary was the word that came to mind. Sam was strangely disappointed – a house that had a reputation as a killer should at least have some distinguishing features.

They picked their way along a path overgrown with weeds and bramble and past a new "For Sale" sign standing in a prominent position. On closer view, the whitewash was yellowed with age, and the whole place looked in need of repair, although it seemed that someone had made a start – several window frames had been painted and a couple of flower beds cleared and weeded. A long-handled rake stood abandoned against the wall, its prongs still caked with soil.

"Bill Turner's work, I guess," Dean whispered as they passed.

Sam kept watch while Dean picked the lock and let them into the house. They found themselves in a hallway, with a staircase ahead and doors leading off to the left and right. The place smelled slightly musty, unsurprising for a house that had been vacant for three years. Sam pushed the front door firmly closed behind them and drew the drapes around the windows before they pulled out their flashlights.

"Careful where you point the flashlight," Dean said quietly. "I think we're screened from the nearest house, but no point in asking for trouble."

Sam nodded agreement as Dean cautiously pushed open the nearest door on the right. It opened with a squeak into a spacious room, bare of all furniture except a stepladder leaning against one wall.

Sam hung back and watched as Dean did a careful sweep of the room with the EMF meter. Sam didn't feel anything amiss with the room, and the EMF confirmed this by remaining silent. Dean looked over his shoulder and shrugged.

Moving quietly, Sam followed his brother through an open archway into another room. This room was a sharp contrast to the first. Chunky shapes shrouded in dustcovers dotted the space, which would be bright and airy in daylight, since the furthest wall was barely a wall at all, the whole length composed of French windows. Well, not the whole length. One window had been boarded up. Sam surmised that the Realtor must have died in this room.

Dean began to walk slowly through the space, sweeping the meter around in a wide arc. Sam paused near the doorway to examine some framed photographs hanging on the wall. There were six photos in a series of three frames, all showing a father with two boys. In the first, the eldest boy would have been about three, the youngest a baby. In the last photo, they would have been around twenty and seventeen. Presumably Martin, Brad and Jamie Warrington. No sign of a mother. Sam realized that Weadle hadn't mentioned a mother, so presumably she must have died – or left her family.

He felt a rush of emotion as he looked at the photos. They looked like an ordinary, happy family. Some of the shots had been taken in the cottage grounds, one on a beach and another in the mountains. While Sam had some family photos taken before his mother's death, there were no more recent ones of himself with Dad and Dean. Taking shots for the family album hadn't been high on Dad's priority list when they were growing up. He did have a couple of pictures of himself with his brother, taken in a photo booth at a local fair when he was nine. But that was about it.

There had to be something wrong with a family that had so few photos.

He felt a wave of sadness as he looked at the Warringtons. How had Jamie felt when he lost his brother? Sam had some idea, having been through the anguish of almost losing Dean twice. And how had Martin lived through losing both sons? It led him to wonder how his own father would react in the same situation.

He was so lost in thought that it took a moment to register that the air around him had become colder. Then he felt a touch, nothing more than a kiss of breeze, and he knew that there was something in the room with them. A second later the EMF meter emitted a high-pitched shriek followed immediately by a startled cry from Dean.

Sam spun around, raising his gun. Dean was on his knees, his own gun on the floor beside him, right hand held to his head. Swirling beside him was a cloud of what looked like the kind of wispy mist seen on an early morning. A tendril had snaked out from it, winding around Dean's head.

Sam didn't hesitate. He took aim and fired into the heart of the cloud. The gun's report was deafening, blocking out the still-whining EMF. Instantly the tendril snapped back into the cloud, which immediately evaporated. Dean uttered a small cry and collapsed to the ground.

"Dean!" Sam ran to his brother, who had curled up, hands clasped around his head, eyes screwed shut and face contorted in a grimace of pain. Oh, God. "Dean!" He skidded down onto his knees, half-lifting his brother into his arms, heart racing with fear.

"You're okay. It's gone. You're okay." He was rambling, but his words seemed to help, for a few moments later Dean groaned and half-opened his eyes.

"Dean?"

Dean lowered his arms, one fist curling tightly around Sam's forearm as he took a few deep breaths. "I'm okay."

"Sure you are," Sam said dryly, trying not to wince as his brother groaned again and tightened his grip. "Can you stand? We need to get out of here before that 'thing' comes back for another piece of you."

Dean nodded, but when Sam helped him to his feet he swayed and would have fallen if Sam hadn't been ready, reaching out to steady him.

"Okay, I've got you." Sam kept an arm firmly around his shaky brother's shoulders as he steered them out of the cottage and down the path.

By the time they reached the car Dean was sweating as if he'd run a marathon. Swallowing his concern, Sam helped his brother into the passenger seat, and Dean leaned back against black leather and closed his eyes.

Sam drove as fast as he dared to a motel they'd passed on the way into town. It looked a cut above their usual choice of accommodation, but budget wasn't his primary concern right now. He left Dean in the car while he checked them in, making sure they were allocated a ground-floor room.

Dean shrugged off his support while cautiously getting out of the car, but Sam hovered close as he staggered into the room and dropped down onto the nearest bed, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. Sam sank down next to him, feeling totally drained.

"Dean?"

"I'm all right."

The reply was predictable but an obvious lie. Dean's eyes were tightly shut and the words, little more than a murmur.

Sam went to the bathroom, filled a glass with water and fished out some painkillers. He came back and perched on the bed again. A few moments later, Dean opened his eyes.

"So," Sam said, holding his brother's gaze, "just so I'm clear, on a scale of one to ten, just what level of all right would that be?"

Dean's mouth twitched. "A nine-point-five?"

"Try again."

Dean sighed. "Around a four."

"Headache?"

"Feels like someone cracked my head open and stomped on my brain." He started to sit up, then flopped back against the pillow and closed his eyes again. "Dizzy," he murmured.

Sam waited patiently until the dizzy spell passed and Dean opened his eyes again, then handed his brother the pills and the glass. "Here."

Dean swallowed the pills without protest. "Thanks. What the hell happened?"

"You don't remember?"

Dean frowned. "I remember the EMF going off, then… I saw something – like a cloud of mist – and something touched me. Then a loud bang, and next thing I knew, I was on the floor. What hit me?"

"Well, it wasn't a serial killer, that's for sure. Nothing hit you, exactly. Whatever it was, it was noncorporeal. Something in that 'mist' – it was reaching out for you, wrapping itself around you. I shot it full of rock salt and it pulled back. Then you collapsed."

"Yeah, good shot, bro." Dean sighed heavily. "This is getting old, you know? I mean, this is the third time in a row a spirit's tried to have its way with me. Do I have a target on my head, or something?"

Sam thought back to the previous two occasions, both a couple of months ago. Both times, Dean had deliberately put himself in harm's way to protect his brother. But there was nothing to gain by pointing that out. Instead, he said lightly, "Probably all female spirits, sensing the Winchester charm."

Dean mustered a weak grin. "Yeah, that must be it."

"So, I guess this throws the coincidence theory out of the window."

"Yeah. Definitely a spirit. Question is, whose?"

"Brad Warrington?" Sam suggested. "He was the first to die in the house."

"So far as we know. But his death was an accident – supposedly. Why would his spirit be killing people?"

"And why those particular people? They can't be the only ones who've set foot in that house over the past three years."

Dean leaned further back against the pillow and shut his eyes. "Maybe we should play twenty questions later, huh? My brain hurts."

Sam took the opportunity to more closely study his brother. His complexion was even more pallid than before, face a mask of exhaustion. He looked kind of — fragile. Which was worrying as hell, because fragile wasn't a word you'd normally associate with Dean Winchester.

"Dude," Dean murmured.

"What?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what. You've got that screwed up, worried look on your face. I'm telling you, you'll get stuck like that one day. I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Dean," Sam retorted in exasperation. "You were hurt before and now this damned spirit… you're not fine."

"Sammy, just… quit worrying, okay?"

"Okay. Fine. I'll try to quit worrying if you try to get some sleep. There'll be time to figure this out in the morning."

Dean nodded, closed his eyes and burrowed a little deeper into the pillow.

Sam gnawed on his lip as he watched Dean surrender to sleep. With luck, Dean would wake the next morning with nothing more to show for the encounter with the spirit than a headache.

But nothing was ever that simple with his brother.


	6. Chapter 6

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Six**

Yellow eyes bored into green, gleaming with malice. His father's face loomed inches from his own, breath warm on his cheek, whispered words laced with venom.

"_You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don't need you." _

"No." Dean shook his head in denial. "That's a lie."

"_Sam? He's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you." _

No. That had to be a lie, too. Dad did care. He had to care.

Yellow morphed into brown and malice faded into anguish. _"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry, Dean…"_

Dad's face splintered into a thousand pieces, and when the image reformed, Dean found himself staring into his own reflection. Eyes full of despair locked with his and he was unable to tear his gaze away as the other Dean began to speak.

"So you still think he cares? Sure he does. He cares so much that he left you two years ago, no note, no explanation, nothing. He cares so much that he didn't bother to call back when Sam told him you were dying from a damaged heart."

Oh, god. He didn't want to think about either of those things, because deep down, it still hurt. He shook his head.

The reflection drove its point home. "He cares so much that he tried to kill you at the cabin."

"That wasn't Dad! He was possessed. He fought it, made it stop."

Dean's other self laughed bitterly. "Ah, but he tortured you for long enough first, didn't he? You know you still relive the pain in your dreams. How can you forget the unbearable agony as he ripped you apart bit by bit?"

"It wasn't his fault," Dean insisted stubbornly.

"_It wasn't his fault,"_ his reflection mimicked scathingly. "He almost let it kill you, and you're still defending him? Do you really think he'd have taken so long to break free if it had been Sam who was suffering? I don't think so. Sam's his favorite and you know it. He proved it again when he chose to sacrifice you so that Sam could live."

Pain sliced through his heart at the memory, but Dean retorted defiantly, "That was the right choice. I'd have done the same thing."

"Really? Yeah, I suppose you would. Okay then, let's talk about Sam."

"No!" He couldn't take any more. He needed to bury the pain, not have it thrust in his face. He tried to look away but couldn't move or break the reflection's gaze.

It folded its arms and went on. "Little Sammy, your devoted brother. You've always been there for him, Dean. You've given up so much for him, and in return he left you for a life he didn't want you to be part of."

"He had his reasons. It took courage to leave…"

"He cares so much," it went on, as if he hadn't spoken, "that he tried to kill you in the asylum in Rockford, told you clearly that he hates you, that he thinks you're pathetic."

"_I'm not pathetic, like you."_

"He didn't mean it. It was Ellicott…"

"And when this is all over, when you've found what you've been hunting all these years, he's going to leave you alone – again. What will you have left then?"

"Nothing." He whispered the word, feeling despair overriding defiance, knowing he couldn't hide from the truth any longer.

His reflection continued relentlessly, every word hitting Dean like a punch to the gut. "You really _are _pathetic, Dean. You try so hard to please Daddy, and why? Because you're desperate for his approval, like Sam said? Because you love him? Don't make me laugh. He doesn't love you, Dean. Oh, you might be the good little soldier you try so hard to be, but you're expendable. He's proved that. And Sam… he doesn't really love you, either. Not like you love him. The demon was right. They don't need you, either of them. They can get along just fine without you."

"No." His voice broke on the word. "It's not… it's not like that."

"It's _exactly_ like that."

Dean's reflection moved, floating forward and merging into him until they were one. He heard its final words as a whisper in his head.

"Oh, really? It's time to be a man, and face the truth. And when you have, you can answer this question. Just what the hell is the point of going on?"

Dean burst into consciousness, lurching upright and gasping as the movement sent a spasm of agony through his back. He looked around wildly, gaze flicking around the standard-issue motel room. Dressing table, chairs, a small desk. Another bed, with the sheet in a crumpled heap in the middle.

He lay back down slowly. He was breathing too fast and his head felt fuzzy. Afraid to close his eyes just in case reality faded, he lay still for a long while, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm his thumping heart. Shit. He must have had a nightmare. One monstrous, bad-assed nightmare.

After a while, he turned his head to glance at his cell on the nightstand. Ten a.m.! Sam was usually kicking him out of bed at 7:30. He glanced over at the other bed. It was empty, and he realized then that he could hear the shower running.

He sat up, carefully this time in deference to his bruised back and the lingering headache, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The events of last night were coming back to him now. Rose Cottage and the attack by the spirit – no wonder he'd been having nightmares. He had to pull himself together before Sam came back into the room. His brother didn't need any more of his shit right now.

Still, hard as he tried, he couldn't work up the energy to move. A blanket of gloom descended on him and he found himself dreading the day ahead. Here they were in yet another good-for-nothing little town, doing the hero thing again, but what was the point? Sure, they'd probably identify the spirit, dispel it with a quick salt and burn, and be on their way. But it would just be replaced by another ghost, and another. Their attempts to make a difference were pathetic, at best. And when they eventually found The Demon, what then?

Sam would leave. Again.

What did it matter, after all, if Sam saw him falling apart? What did anything matter? Shit, he was tired. So bone-achingly, mind-numbingly tired of everything. It would be so good to go to sleep and never wake up again. Then there'd be no more pain, no more struggling. No more – anything.

He reached under the pillow for his knife, the one he always kept there, just in case. Just in case something attacked them in the night. Just in case he needed it. He held it in his hand, running his fingers over the razor-sharp blade, and thought how easy it would be to draw it across his throat, to feel the blood, thick and hot as it ran down his hand. It would be so easy, so quick, and then there'd be no more pain…

Sam stepped out of the shower, toweled off and dressed quickly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He had left Dean sleeping soundly and planned for him to stay that way as long as possible. Neither of them had got much sleep the night before. Dean had slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares, and after the first few times he had woken shouting and drenched in sweat, Sam had pulled a blanket off his own bed and settled down in a chair beside Dean's, one hand resting on his brother's arm. He knew that Dean would have been mortified had be been conscious enough to witness this coddling, but Sam's presence had seemed to settle him, and that was all that mattered.

He frowned as he thought back to the supernatural encounter at Rose Cottage. Not that such an occurrence was unusual, but a run-in with a vengeful spirit was so what Dean didn't need right now. He really was a magnet for trouble, and Sam was getting heartily sick of watching him suffer.

He was also worried about the possible lingering effects of the encounter, although despite the headache and a slight fever, Dean had seemed more exhausted than hurt. So exhausted that he had allowed Sam to pull off his boots and jeans, and practically tuck him in with nothing more than a token grunt of resistance.

Sam rubbed a hand over his eyes, gritty from lack of sleep. He could do with another couple of hours, but he also wanted to get out there and track down this spirit. He had a bad feeling about that cottage and this case, and he wanted nothing more than to get the job done and get his brother out of town.

When he opened the door, he expected to see Dean in the same position he'd left him, curled on his side, fast asleep. But Dean wasn't asleep. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand gripping his knife, the fingers of the other running slowly back and forth across the open blade. Sam's heart lurched. He'd seen Dean handle the knife a hundred times before, but never like this. Never hunched up in a posture that cried despair, and never with blood trickling down his hand.

"Dean?" he called sharply.

Dean's head shot up, his expression startled. "What?"

"Dean, what are you doing with the knife?"

Dean put the knife down on the bed and his brow furrowed as he looked at the blood seeping through his fingers. "I… nothing. I was just cleaning it. What's the problem?"

_What's the problem?_ "Well to start with, you're bleeding," Sam said, trying to keep his tone casual.

Dean shrugged. "It's just a nick. Chill, all right?"

"Dean…"

"Can it, dude. I'm gonna catch a shower, then we can get some breakfast and go get this thing done."

As the bathroom door closed behind his brother, Sam sank down on the bed. For just an instant, when Dean had first looked up, Sam had seen a look of total desolation in his eyes. He must have imagined it. Of course he'd imagined it. He was just being paranoid after everything that had happened, and that was the last thing Dean needed right now. Still, he'd keep a close eye on his brother until they finished the job. Then, maybe, he'd persuade Dean that they needed a vacation.

A nice, _long_ vacation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Seven**

Sam pushed aside the laptop and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. For the past fifteen minutes, he had alternated between shoveling in mouthfuls of bagel, looking up useful addresses in Four Pines and surreptitiously studying his brother from the corner of his eye.

Dean had ordered only coffee for breakfast, physically turning a shade paler at Norma's suggestion of a full breakfast with a stack of pancakes on the side. He'd said it was because he still had a lingering headache, but Sam wasn't sure he was buying the explanation. Still, other than the loss of appetite, Dean had seemed much more his usual self since leaving the motel. He'd even engaged in a flirtatious exchange with the girl behind the reception desk, although Sam had the nagging suspicion that his heart wasn't really in it.

Dean took a mouthful of coffee, glanced up and frowned. "Quit staring at me."

"I'm not staring at you," Sam responded automatically. "I'm just…"

"Worried. I know. I'm fine, Sam."

"We don't know what that spirit might have done to you last night."

"My back's still sore and I have a headache. That's it."

"Are you sure? You don't feel… any different?"

Dean growled. "Not really, unless you count a sudden psychopathic desire to strangle my little brother."

There was enough humor in Dean's voice to reassure Sam. "Situation normal, then," he quipped, and was rewarded with a half-grin. He felt the knot in his stomach unwind a little. After all, if Dean wasn't quite his usual brash, cocky self, it was hardly surprising after what he'd been through over the past few days. He'd already had a lot on his mind before the spirit decided to bond with him last night. The best thing would be to stop showing concern and cut him some slack.

"So," Dean said, obviously deeming the subject closed, "let's go over what we're dealing with here."

Sam nodded, his mind clicking into gear. "Okay. First, we have five dead people that we know of, all of whom died inside or within the grounds of Rose Cottage."

"Second," Dean went on, "we have positive proof that there's supernatural activity in the cottage, which pretty much rules out the serial-killer theory."

"So, we need to find out whose spirit is doing this and why it's killing people. Suspect number one has to Brad Warrington, since the deaths started with him. He supposedly died after being accidentally electrocuted in the basement of the cottage. But if it is Brad, what reason did he have to start killing people?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe he's just angry he died and he wants other people to suffer the way he did."

"Yeah, but then wouldn't everyone who set foot in the cottage die? There've only been four deaths over the past three years. Brad's brother Jamie died but his father didn't — and they both lived in that house. There must be something about those people, something that links them that we haven't spotted yet."

Dean nodded. "So we need to find out more about how Brad died and check out all the others – see if there's a connection."

"I guess it's possible that our ghost is someone else who died in that cottage before Brad.If it is, we need to know why it started killing, and why it chose those people."

Dean opened the town plan he'd picked up in the motel lobby. "Which street is the public library on?"

Sam peered at the laptop. "Maple Avenue."

"That's just off Main, about three blocks from here."

Sam looked at his notes. "The coffee shop Rhonda's friend works in is on Walnut – one block over."

"Good." Dean drained his coffee. "We can split up – I'll take the coffee shop, you do your geek-boy stuff and check out the history of the cottage at the library."

The thought of letting Dean out of his sight made Sam uneasy. He knew it was irrational, but still… "Why don't we just stick together?" he suggested casually.

"Why?"

"No reason – just that there's no real need to rush this job, is there?"

Dean narrowed his eyes and Sam knew his brother sensed the real reason for his reluctance to split up. But Dean chose not to call him on it, simply saying, "No real need to draw it out, either." He stood up. "Let's meet back here in an hour."


	8. Chapter 8

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Eight**

Dean found the Moonstone Coffee and Gift Shop easily enough. It wasn't difficult to spot, with lime green-painted woodwork and windows haphazardly stuffed full of stone and wood-carved gifts and jewelry. The vibrant sign above the window carried the name of the shop and its proprietors – Sylvia Metz and Amber Jackson.

He paused outside for a moment, gathering the energy to go in.

He'd worked hard to convince Sam that everything was all right. He'd even taken time to flirt with the receptionist at the motel, though his heart wasn't in it. He thought he'd partially succeeded in fooling Sam, but the way his brother kept darting anxious glances his way when he thought Dean wasn't looking was getting irritating.

All morning he had struggled to shake off the blanket of depression that had descended on him as soon as he'd woken up. His brain felt filled with cotton wool and he was constantly assailed with distressing images and fragments of conversation. _"You really are pathetic… They don't need you, either of them… I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry Dean. I'm sorry, Dean..."_

He knew rationally that this downturn in spirits probably had as much to do with his recent encounter with a ghost as it did with the events back at the warehouse. That didn't help him deal with the depression that pressed in at him from all sides, nor the nagging feeling that he was beginning to lose his mind. Frankly, the very last thing he wanted to do right now was walk into that coffee shop and interrogate its owner about the death of her best friend. Add to all that the fact that his back ached and his head throbbed. What he wanted was to go back to the motel, curl up under the covers and shut out the world.

He took a deep breath, slowly blew it out and squared his jaw. This felt a lot like self-pity, and he didn't do self-pity. He took a determined step forward and pushed open the door.

The bell jangled as he entered and paused in the doorway for a moment, eyes scanning the interior. The right-hand side of the room was set up as a coffee shop, counter wedged into one corner and half a dozen wooden tables and chairs crowded into the remaining space. The other side was the gift shop, packed full of shelves and racks loaded with items similar to those he had seen in the window.

Several customers browsed through the gifts and one couple was seated at a table in the window. A blonde girl standing by the till near the door smiled at him as he walked past her to a table near the counter. A moment later, someone appeared at his elbow.

"What can I get you?"

Dean looked up. A woman in her mid-twenties, unruly auburn hair held back from her face with a clasp, laughing green eyes and dimples that deepened when she smiled, as she did now. An attractive woman. Very attractive.

Dean smiled back. "Actually, I'm not here for the coffee. I'm hoping you're gonna make my day and tell me you're Amber Jackson."

She pursed her lips, considering. "Well, I think my answer would depend on who's asking."

"My name's Dean Kent—"

"—and you're a journalist writing an article on unsolved mysteries of small-town America," she finished for him, eyes dancing.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Word travels fast in a small town."

"It does if your cousin happens to work as a barmaid in Charlie's Bar," she admitted with a grin. "It wasn't hard to figure out – you're just how she described you."

Dean leaned back and casually folded his arms. "Really? And how exactly did she describe me?"

"Ah, now that would be for me to know and you to wonder about."

Dean felt his depression lift slightly. He liked this girl. "Okay, well as you already know who I am, you'll know I'm researching the story of Rose Cottage. Think you could spare a few minutes to talk to me?"

Amber's smile faded. "You want to talk about Rhonda, don't you?"

"Yeah. If that's okay?"

She sighed. "I guess Rosie can cope for a while." She sat down in the chair across from him, resting her elbows on the table. "I don't know what I can tell you. Why are you digging this all up anyhow?"

"Five deaths in the same house – that's some coincidence."

She shrugged. "It's strange, I'll grant you, but coincidences happen. It's more likely than some of the theories people have been putting round."

"Like what?"

"Well, I guess you've heard The Weasel's theory of a serial killer." Her contemptuous tone indicated her opinion of that theory. "Then there's the idea that Brad actually committed suicide, which is total crap, and that the others all did the same, choosing Rose Cottage because it was romantic or fitting to kill yourself in a place where it had happened before." Dean nodded, remembering that Norma had come out with the same idea. "Others think the house is jinxed, or haunted or something."

"And what do you think?"

"I told you. I think it's just a strange coincidence."

"Okay. So, tell me how you knew Rhonda."

Amber smiled. "We were best friends in school. Drawn together because we were both arty types, I suppose. She was a painter, I made things."

"Made things?"

"Yeah. Pottery, sculpture, that kind of thing. A lot of the stuff in here is mine, like the carved animals."

Dean looked around with renewed interest. To his untrained eye, the carvings looked professional. He noticed some larger wooden carvings in human form on a nearby display case. They were slightly abstract, but still recognizable as male or female and in poses that suggested profound sorrow. "What about those? Are they yours?"

"Yeah, they're mine. I carved them after Rhonda…" She sighed.

"They're amazing," he said sincerely.

Amber flushed. "Thanks." Her eyes wandered to the carvings, and an expression of sadness spread across her face.

"You know, I think I'd have put you down as the arty type," Dean said, wanting to break the moment and see her smile again.

She tore her gaze away from the carvings and cocked her head. "You would? What gave me away? Do all arty types wear ethnic clothing and dangly earrings?"

He chuckled. "I've met a few who do."

"Maybe I should change my image then; I don't want to be predictable."

"Oh, I get the feeling you're anything but predictable."

She was smiling again. She had a beautiful smile. Dean cleared his throat. "Anyway, why don't you tell me a bit about Rhonda?"

He watched Amber as she talked, noting the even white teeth, the way her unruly hair was escaping the clasp and curling around her face, appreciating the intelligence in her eyes and the wide, generous mouth. She was exactly the kind of woman that appealed to him – attractive, funny and intelligent. Maybe he should ask her out. A night out with a beautiful woman sounded damned good right now.

Then a name popped into his mind. Cassie.

His sudden good mood faded as quickly as it had come. Cassie was attractive, funny and intelligent, and look what had happened there. He'd made two fatal mistakes with Cassie. First, he'd allowed himself to fall in love with her. Second, he'd told her the truth. He still vividly remembered the disgust and distrust on her face when she'd realized what he was saying. She'd clearly thought he was a freak, and who could blame her? He was good at his job, but that was all he had going for him, and who'd want to spend their life with someone who hunted monsters for a living?

Getting close had been a big mistake, and one he couldn't afford to make again. Which is why his love life now consisted of one-night stands with mindless bimbos he picked up in bars. He'd never complain about the casual sex; he enjoyed those encounters, and they were a way of escaping from the job for a few hours. But no matter how hard he tried hard to convince himself and the outside world that this carefree existence was what he really wanted, in his heart, he knew he was lying.

The depression fell back around him like a shroud. This was his life. He was destined to be alone, keeping people at arm's length – everyone except Sam, and even Sam was going to leave. This left him with – nothing.

And maybe that was exactly what he deserved.


	9. Chapter 9

**Worth Living for**

by Swanseajill

**Part Nine**

Sam pushed open the door to the Moonstone Coffee and Gift Shop, smiling at the gaudy sign and the random display of colorful gifts in the window.

The shop was busy. Several customers browsed around the gift-laden shelves and all five tables were occupied. Hardly surprising at 1:30 pm. He was inordinately relieved to see Dean slouched at a table near the counter, a mug cradled between both hands. Sam slipped into the solid pine chair across from him, but Dean didn't acknowledge him, continuing to stare into his mug. "Dean?"

No response.

"Dean!"

"Huh?" Dean looked up then, but his eyes were still focused somewhere else.

"Bro, you read tea leaves in a cup of tea. I don't think it works the same way with coffee."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. So, what did you find out?"

Dean shrugged. "Not a lot."

Sam rolled his eyes. It was going to be one of those, "blood out of stone" conversations. "Okaaay. Want to elaborate on that a bit?"

Dean sat up a little straighter, and his brows drew together in an obvious attempt to concentrate. "To cut a long story short, Rhonda Adams was brought up in Four Pines, and then went away to college to study art. She had some success with her painting, but things hadn't been going too well for the last couple of years. Last year she had an exhibition in Denver that bombed big time. Amber – that's her friend – says she persuaded Rhonda to come back home for a while, back to her roots where she started painting. She was looking at Rose Cottage to rent when she…"

Dean stopped talking as a girl came across the room and stopped at their table. She smiled at Dean and gestured toward Sam. "This must be your partner."

Dean nodded. "Jimmy Logan. Jimmy, this is Amber Jackson. She owns this place."

"Co-owns," the girl corrected and smiled at Sam, shaking his proffered hand. "Nice to meet you. Can I get you something?"

"Just a coffee, thanks."

"Latte, cappuccino, Americano, house blend?"

"House blend's fine."

"How about a sandwich, or maybe I can tempt you to a slice of pie?" Amber flicked her thumb in Dean's direction and her smile broadened. "Your friend turned me down. Can you imagine that?"

Sam grinned. "Actually, no. I think I can safely say I've never seen Dean turn down a piece of pie as long as I've known him."

"See?" She raised her eyebrows at Dean. "Now I'm really offended."

Sam expected a flirtatious response, but Dean just said, "Really, I'm good, thanks."

Amber shrugged. "How about you, Jimmy? Sylvia's pecan special is renowned over four states."

"Uhh… thanks, that'd be great."

She looked back at Dean. "Another coffee, then?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Be right back."

Sam had watched the interaction between Amber and his brother with interest. Amber had barely been able to take her eyes off Dean the whole time. It was clear as day that she was interested, and he'd have expected Dean to be turning on the charm big time with such an attractive girl. For some reason, though, Dean seemed oblivious to Amber's charms.

Sam decided to prod a little. "So, are you about to tell me you've made plans for tonight and you won't be spending the evening with me surfing the infomercials back at the motel?"

Dean looked at him uncomprehendingly.

Sam sighed. "Dude, despite the fact that you still look like the living dead, that girl is all over you like a rash, and she's a babe. What's wrong with you?"

Dean stared at the table. "Nothing. I just… nothing. Can we get back on track?"

Sam studied him for a moment, and then let it go. "Sure."

"Right. Well, like I was saying, Rhonda was looking at Rose Cottage to rent. She was there with the Realtor when the Realtor got a call on her cell. The Realtor went into the kitchen to talk in private and a few minutes later, she heard shattering glass. When she got back to the family room, Rhonda was laying out on the deck, glass all around her, a shard sticking out of her jugular."

"Ouch!" Sam winced.

"Yeah. Everyone thought it was an accident – she must have tripped and fallen through the glass. That's what Amber thinks. She says Rhonda wasn't in a good place – she was really bummed about the exhibition, feeling like a failure, but Amber didn't think she was suicidal – she'd said she was determined to try again."

"So, we're no further forward."

"Nope. Oh, and as far as Amber knows, Rhonda didn't know any of the others, except they were both in the same year in school as Brad and knew him quite well."

"Well, that connects Rhonda and Brad," Sam said, "but it doesn't link Brad to anyone else. Not much to go on."

Amber returned with the coffees and a huge slice of the pecan pie. She waited expectantly as Sam took a bite, and he made a big show of almost swooning in ecstasy. "Best pie I've ever tasted."

Amber grinned, obviously appreciating his theatrics. "Told you. So, how long are you two in town?" The question was addressed to both of them, but she was looking at Dean.

"Just a couple of nights," he said.

"Well." She seemed to hesitate, then went on. "If you'd like someone to introduce you to Four Pines' spectacular nightlife, I'd be happy to oblige."

Sam looked at Dean, who seemed to be finding a coffee stain on the table particularly riveting. After a moment, Dean cleared his throat and looked up. "I… uhh… that's nice of you, but we're on a really tight deadline. We'll be working through the night. Another time, maybe?"

Amber's smile faded and she flushed slightly. Sam had the impression she wasn't usually the type to come on to strangers and was embarrassed at the brush-off.

"Not that we wouldn't love to go out on the town," Sam said quickly. "It's just— "

"It's okay," Amber said. "Maybe next time you're passing through" She glanced up as the doorbell rang. "I have to go. Old Annie Watts just came in and she hates to be kept waiting."

She walked away quickly and Sam glared across the table at his brother.

Dean met his eyes. "Sam, just… don't."

It brought Sam up short, because he hadn't been expecting to meet such a profound expression of regret. He bit back the caustic comment he'd been about to make.

"So," Dean said, after a moment's silence, "Did you find anything?"

Sam was prepared to accept the change in subject – for now. He shook his head. "I didn't do any better. Rose Cottage was built in nineteen-fifty, and I searched the newspaper archives over the past seventy years, but came up blank. And before you ask, I talked to the librarian, who's at least fifty years older than the cottage and studies the history of the town as a hobby, and he doesn't know of any legends connected to it or the land. It isn't a sacred Indian burial ground, or anything like that – the land was just meadows until the cottage was built."

Dean grunted.

"Then I looked up all the newspaper articles I could find on the five deaths and anything else on the individuals, and there just doesn't seem to be anything to connect them."

"Well, that's just great."

"There's more. Brad Warrington was cremated on his father's wishes. His ashes are buried in the churchyard on the other side of town. So he can't be our ghost."

"Shit."

"Yeah. We're not even back at square one. We're further back than square one."

Dean took a long swig of coffee. "So I guess we stick to Plan A – talk to the other families and hope we come up with something. And if we don't, then maybe we just accept we've drawn a blank and blow this town."

Sam frowned. It wasn't like Dean to give up on a job. He was always like a dog with a bone until he found something to salt and burn. "What about the small matter of the ghost who attacked you last night?"

Dean shrugged. "Waste one, there'll just be another to take its place."

Sam looked at his brother with narrowed eyes. What had happened to Dean Winchester, dedicated hunter with a mission to clear the nation of evil? He studied Dean carefully, wondering what was going on in his head. His earlier comment about the living dead was a slight exaggeration, as Dean did in fact look a little better than he had earlier. His face had more color, at least. But he still looked tired and was far from his normal self.

"You don't look so hot, Dean. You still got that headache? How's your back?"

Dean ignored the questions and got to his feet. "Let's just get this finished."

He walked to the counter to pay the check and exchanged a few words with Amber that Sam couldn't make out. Amber's smile faded a little as he nodded and turned to go.

Once outside, Sam couldn't help himself. "Don't tell me you didn't ask her out!"

"I didn't ask her out." Dean's face was expressionless. "We've got a job to do. Let's just do it, okay. You're the college boy, why don't you drive out to the college and talk to Martin Warrington."

"Fine." Dean was right. They needed to finish this job and get out of this town. Sam was beginning to get a very bad feeling about both.

He fished a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Dean. "The librarian says Bill Turner's family is out of town staying with relatives, but this is the address of his brother-in-law – they used to be business partners. It's just a few blocks from here. And Wendy Metzler worked at Parker Wilkinson on the corner of Willow and Main."

Dean fisted the sheet of paper. "Is every damned street in this town named after a tree? Okay. Let's get this done. Call me when you've finished at the college."

Sam held his hand out.

"What?"

"Car keys."

"Oh." Dean fished in his pocket, handed the keys over, and turned to walk away.

"Uhh, Dean?"

Dean stopped and turned to face him. "What now?"

"Haven't you forgotten something?"

Dean frowned. "What?"

"The usual lecture on looking after your baby, not scratching the paintwork or grinding the gears."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, a strange expression on his face. Then he said, "Dude, it's just a car," turned, and walked away, leaving Sam standing on the sidewalk with his mouth open.


	10. Chapter 10

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Ten**

Sam stood looking out of the window at the grassy quadrangle of Four Pines Technical Institute.

He had decided to turn up at the college without calling for an appointment first, afraid that Martin Warrington would refuse to see him. The drive had taken around thirty minutes, and on inquiring at reception, he was told that Warrington was lecturing until five. He had around a two-hour wait. He'd driven off again, grabbed a plastic sandwich at a nearby store and sat in the car for an hour going over his notes again. No new insights emerged. Frustrated, he returned to the college and made his way to the lecture room. The plan was to approach Warrington as he left and convince him to spare ten minutes of his time.

Sam had been edgy since leaving the Moonstone, glancing at his watch every five minutes, anxious to get this interview over with so he could get back to town.

Anxious to get back to Dean.

His concern for his brother was growing by the hour, and he still felt that it was wrong to have let Dean out of his sight. That, of course, was totally irrational because of all people, Dean could take care of himself. Yet something nagged at the back of Sam's mind, something that told him that there was danger near.

He knew that Dean was still struggling with the emotional aftermath of Dad's decision. Sam himself hadn't yet got to grips with what had happened, his mind repeatedly returning to the incident. If it was hard for him, how hard must it be for Dean, the one their father had chosen to sacrifice?

It had shaken Sam to see his brother so uncharacteristically vulnerable two nights ago, and since the encounter with the ghost, he'd become more and more concerned as Dean began to display uncharacteristic behavior. Not only had Dean been completely indifferent to an attractive, intelligent woman, he'd been indifferent about the Impala, which was even more shocking. He could just be cranky from the lingering headache and continued pain in his bruised back, but Sam was sure there was something more, and it was probably connected to that ghost. He remembered the expression he thought he'd seen on Dean's face earlier that morning, when he'd been holding the knife.

Hopeless.

Desperate.

He fidgeted for another five minutes, then gave in, pulling his cell out of his pocket and punching in the familiar speed dial number.

"Hey," Dean answered.

Relief pulsed through him. "Hey. How's it going?"

"I'm done."

"Already?"

"They weren't social calls, dude. I didn't get invited in for tea."

"Okay, so what did you find out?"

He heard Dean sigh and when he spoke, he sounded tired.

"Bill Turner owned a garage with his brother-in-law. They went bust a year ago. Bro-in-law got a job as a mechanic in another garage, Bill wasn't so lucky. He's been doing odd jobs ever since. Got in some financial trouble, remortaged the house, that kind of thing. His brother-in-law says he was depressed and felt that he was failing his family in providing for them, but he hadn't pegged him as suicidal."

"Huh. And Wendy Metzler?"

"House has been on the market with Parker Wilkinson for three years. Lots of viewings, no one murdered, until Wendy Metzler. First time she'd been to the house. It was in someone else's portfolio and when they left, Wendy took it on. Anyway, Petunia said-"

"_Petunia?" _

"Dude. Don't interrupt. Petunia, yeah. Receptionist at P.W. Nice girl. Big tits."

Sam frowned. While the comment was typically Dean, it was said without the usual flip tone, and Sam had the feeling that Dean was going through the motions to convince him he was okay.

"Anyway," Dean went on, "Petunia said that Wendy had recently been through a divorce and she was having a rough time – feeling worthless because her ex left her for a younger model."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. But again, Petunia didn't think she was the suicidal type. Beginning to see a pattern here?"

"Mmhuh. Depressed but not suicidal. Can't see how it helps, though. What about a connection to the others?"

"Zip, for both of them, as far as the bro-in-law and Petunia knew."

Sam sighed. "So, of these three, the only thing that ties them together is they were depressed. Why would the ghost be picking them because of that?"

"Maybe the ghost's depressed."

"Maybe. Look, I think the key's somewhere with Brad and Jamie."

"You think? Tell you the truth, Sam, I don't really give a damn."

"You… what?"

"Let's face it, bro, this gig is lame. All our gigs are pretty lame, come to think of it. I mean, dude, there's two of us and a world full of evil. We're just kidding ourselves if we think we're making one atom of difference."

The sheer despondency in Dean's tone alarmed Sam. "Dean, where's this coming from? You know how many lives we've saved…"

"And how many we haven't."

"Dean…"

"Save it, Sam. Look, let me know when you're heading back and I'll meet you somewhere."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll think of something. Maybe I'll head back to the Moonbeam and talk to Amber. Would that make you happy?"

Only if it makes _you _happy"Dean…"

But Dean had already hung up.

Before Sam even had time to analyze that worrying conversation, the door across the corridor opened and students began streaming out.

He waited until they'd all left, then peered into the room. A man sat at the desk, head down, writing. Sam hesitated, then took a step inside and cleared his throat. The man looked up. His face, framed by neatly cut gray hair, was long and thin, his skin sallow and his blue eyes melancholy. What else would they be, Sam wondered, in a man who had lost two sons within twelve months of each other.

"Can I help you?"

Sam took a couple of steps into the room.

"Uhh, yeah. Mr. Warrington?"

The man nodded amiably. "I'm Martin Warrington."

Sam stepped forward and held out his hand. "Jimmy Logan. I'm a journalist--"

Warrington held up a hand and his friendly expression hardened. "What do you want?"

"I'm writing an article on…" Sam stopped. He'd rehearsed his story about the article on unexplained mysteries in small-town America. But he had the feeling that Warrington would refuse to talk to him about that. He found himself blurting out, "I'm doing a major in journalism and psychology. I'm interested in the psychology of the relationship between male siblings and I came across the story about your sons. I'd really like to write a paper on them, to try to understand…" he floundered to a halt.

Warrington looked at him in silence, and Sam was beginning to think he'd made a big mistake when the man gestured towards a seat across the desk from him.

"Well, that's not the usual angle reporters come with. Sit down. I can spare you five minutes."

Sam took a seat.

"What is it you want to know?" Warrington asked, and Sam was relieved that he didn't sound hostile. More – resigned.

"I just wanted to say that I have an older brother myself and we're… we're very close. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for your son Jamie to lose his brother and for you…" Warrington regarded him in silence, and he went on, "Maybe you could start by giving me a bit of background on your sons. Why they were so close, and so on."

Warrington shrugged. "They shouldn't have been, by all rights. They were very different. Brad was a great kid – outgoing, loved sports, bright, too. Jamie was different. Almost pathologically shy, kept himself to himself. Never had many friends. Bright, though, like his brother. He used to write poetry, that kind of thing, He idolized Brad, and Brad was really good with him – he doted on his little brother. When he went to college he made sure he came home often, had Jamie out to stay with him, things like that."

"And Brad's death was an accident?"

"Yes. All the lights in the house went out during a storm. He went down to the basement to try to fix the problem. Turns out there was a fault with the wiring. He… he was electrocuted. If only I'd gone down myself that night…"

Sam was struck by the naked grief in Warrington's voice, indicative of a would still raw even after three years. He wished he could just leave this man be, but he had to find the truth, and he was sure it lay somewhere with Brad and Jamie. So he forced himself to go on with the interview.

"Mr. Warrington, I hate to ask this, but I've heard that it's possible that this wasn't an accident, that Brad—"

Warrington shook his head firmly. "Brad didn't commit suicide. He had no reason to. He was doing well in college, had his whole life ahead of him. When he came home that weekend, he was full of himself. He had a new girl; he'd just scored the winning touchdown in the final minutes of the intervarsity championship. I knew my son, and I'd have known if there was anything wrong."

"Okay. What about Jamie? Can you tell me a bit about him?"

Warrington's face clouded. "Jamie – Jamie was very different. Like I said, he was a shy kid, a real loner. Sensitive, I suppose you'd call him. He idolized his brother, and when Brad died – he just seemed to fold into himself, you know?" He paused, running his hands through his hair. "I blame myself. I was so devastated by Brad's death, I could barely keep myself together, and I just didn't see what was happening to Jamie. That's something I have to live with every day. He became more and more morose, spent all his spare time in his room or in the family room, scribbling in his journals. On the anniversary of Brad's death, I came home from work to find him hanging from the light fixture in the family room. I'd known he was depressed, but I'd had no idea… or rather, I didn't _want_ to have any idea. I was too caught up in my own grief about Brad."

"I'm very sorry, sir," Sam said sincerely, nodding in sympathy. "And you're sure it was suicide?"

"Positive. He didn't leave a note, but I read his journal. The poor kid was desperately lonely, felt that now that Brad was gone, no one understood him, least of all his father. Every page was full of self-pity and self-loathing. He kept saying that there was nothing but days of misery stretching out ahead, and all he wanted was to leave this world and be with his brother."

Sam felt the beginning of understanding clawing at his consciousness. Of the five victims, Jamie was the only one who had been suicidal, and that had to be significant. What if Jamie was the restless spirit? He'd wanted to die and be with his brother, but instead he'd ended up trapped alone in the house. Maybe he was preying on people who were emotionally vulnerable, like himself. That made sense – except for Martin Warrington. He must have been desperately depressed himself after Jamie's death. How, then, was he still alive?

Warrington was still speaking, and Sam dragged his attention back.

"Anyway, the day I found him, I walked out of that house and never set foot in it again."

Sam felt his heart miss a beat. "You mean you literally never went inside again?"

Warrington nodded. "Seems stupid, I know, but I just couldn't make myself do it. Had my brother go in and fetch the things I needed, and then I put it on the market. Only went back into the grounds once, and that was to bury my son."

"I'm sorry?"

"Jamie. He loved that house. Spent hours in the family room, writing in his journal. I had him buried right outside it. I knew it was where he'd want to be laid to rest." He shook his head, expression full of regret.

Sam's heart bled for this man who would never have a chance to go back and change his relationship with his son. But at the same time, alarm bells sounded in his head as he considered his theory. Jamie was lonely, thought no one understood him. Who would understand him? People like him, who had experienced some kind of emotional trauma. He was killing them so he wouldn't be lonely any more.

Sam broke out in a cold sweat as he realized the significance of the truth. The previous night, Jamie hadn't picked Dean because he was the first to walk into the room. He'd picked Dean because he was still emotionally raw from the events of the previous few days. Jamie had been trying to kill him, as he'd killed the others. In the process, he must have done some damage, left behind something of himself that had caused Dean's low spirits today. And if he wanted Dean — what if he'd also put in his mind a compulsion to return to the cottage?

Sam sprang to his feet. "Mr. Warrington, I know this is extremely rude, and I appreciate you talking to me – I can't tell you how much – but I've just remembered a very urgent appointment." He was babbling, words falling over each other in his haste. "Listen, don't worry about the paper. I don't think I'm going to be writing it after all. I'm… I'm very sorry for your loss, but I really have to leave."

He practically ran out of the room. As he sprinted down the corridor, he pulled out his cell and hit the speed dial. "Come on, Dean. Pick up." The voicemail came on. "Dammit, Dean, where are you?" He knew the answer, even as he pressed redial.

Dean was at Rose Cottage.


	11. Chapter 11

Here are the last few parts of the story. I want to thank everyone who's sent feedback for the first ten parts - it was really encouraging to read and I hope the last chapters meet your expectations!

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Eleven**

The Impala screeched to a halt at the end of Anderson Avenue. Sam leapt out and popped the trunk, grabbing a gun from the weapons bag. His hands shook as he loaded the rock salt and snapped the barrel shut. For good measure, he loaded a second gun, stuffed them both under his jacket and picked up the EMF meter.

Instinct told him to run, but he forced himself to walk normally, casually glancing around to see if any of the neighbors were taking notice. Nobody seemed to be nearby, and once he'd opened the gate to Rose Cottage, he quickened his pace. He was sprinting by the time he reached the cottage.

The front door stood slightly ajar and he walked in, pausing briefly in the entrance to look around carefully. Rushing in like an amateur could be dangerous for both him and Dean, but he couldn't slow the frantic beating of his heart, and his grip on the barrel of the gun he held was slick with sweat.

He stood in the hallway and called, "Dean!" His voice echoed slightly in the silence, but there was no answer.

Sam moved slowly forward, through the first room and into the family room – and froze.

Dean was there, as Sam had known he would be. He stood in the middle of the room alone, but the air around him shimmered as it did in a heat haze on a summer's day. The EMF meter was screaming and Sam quickly shut it off. He didn't need a piece of equipment to tell him that there was a ghost present, and that it had Dean firmly in its clutches.

He considered shooting. The rock salt would hurt Dean but not kill him, and it would temporarily dispel the ghost. But he realized he couldn't risk it. Not when Dean held his sharply honed hunting knife in his hand, blade poised just over his heart. Across his chest, shallow funnels of red stood out starkly against the white of his T-shirt, blood slowly dripping from them onto the floor.

"Dean," Sam called softly, careful not to startle his brother.

Dean looked up.

The utter desolation in his eyes shook Sam to the core. The despair he thought he'd glimpsed in Dean's expression this morning was nothing compared to this. He swallowed hard as the horrible truth dawned. The ghost hadn't killed anyone. It had exerted some kind of influence over them, sending them to the depths of despair so they could fully empathize with it. Then it had forced them to take their own lives.

Now it was doing the same to Dean.

_Stay calm. Whatever you do, stay calm._ "Dean, put the knife down." He tried to keep the fear out of his voice as he slowly edged closer.

Dean looked at him, but his eyes were unfocused, and Sam wasn't at all sure his brother was actually seeing him.

"Dean?" he repeated, more firmly this time. "Put the knife down."

"I… I can't." Dean's tone, usually so confident and certain, was hesitant, lost. "I'm sorry. I just… I can't do this shit any more."

"Dean, listen to me. This isn't you. It's the spirit of Jamie Warrington. He's making you think these things, but this isn't real, Dean. What you're feeling isn't real."

Dean shook his head. "It's real, Sam. I'm sick of lying to myself. Sick of pretending everything's fine when it's all screwed to hell. You don't need me, you or Dad. You… you'd be better off without me. You could get back to your life--"

Sam's heart lurched at the anguish behind the words. "Dean, no. _This_ is my life, now. We're in this together, remember?"

Dean licked his lips, but the knife didn't waver. "I'm tired, Sam. I just want it all to be over. I've spent my life doing my duty, being Dad's good little soldier. And now I'm tired. I'm sick of it all."

Sam didn't know what to say to this stranger standing in front of him. He knew that beneath the confident, cocky veneer, Dean felt things deeply, but Dean was also a fighter, and he sure as hell wasn't the kind to wallow in self-pity. But this Dean was lost in a world of pain, and Sam didn't know how to reach him.

"Dean, you can't give up," he said helplessly.

"You don't understand. I _am_ pathetic, just like you said. What difference will it make if I'm gone?"

Sam flinched as the cruel words he'd spoken in the asylum came back at him. He tried to keep his voice steady but firm as he sought the right words. "Dean, you have to fight this thing. Dude, listen to yourself. This isn't you. You know you make a difference. You have a job to do, and only you can do it. What we do – it's important. It saves lives. You're a hero, man."

"No…"

Dean's eyed flicked back to the knife. Sam choked back a cry of panic and took a reflexive step forward as Dean drew the knife across his chest, carving another long furrow that immediately began to drip blood. Sam tightened his grip on the gun. Could he risk taking the shot? The knife moved, this time coming to rest at Dean's throat. The moment was lost.

In desperation, Sam hardened his tone. "Dean. Look at me. Look at me!"

Slowly, Dean raised his head, and Sam locked their eyes. "You want to know what's pathetic?" Sam asked. "You, right now. Give up, if you want to. Take the easy way out. But I'm telling you now – the Dean Winchester I know wouldn't give up. The man I'm proud to call my brother would fight this!"

Dean just looked at him with lost, frightened eyes, and Sam could see that although Dean understood the words, they weren't enough. He wasn't getting through.

Then suddenly, he knew. He knew the one thing that might just break through Dean's pain.

He kept his voice harsh. "You know what? You're selfish, Dean. Taking your life because it's what_ you_ want. What about me? Have you thought about what_ I_ want? What I need? You're my big brother. You're supposed to protect me, look out for me. What's going to happen when you're gone? I_ need_ you. I can't do this without you. I need you, Dean."

He held his breath, praying that he hadn't made the wrong move. Dean held his gaze, and there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

"Sammy?"

Sam blinked back tears at the depth of pain and confusion in that one word. "Fight it, Dean," he urged, voice tight. "You are _not_ going to die. I need you, okay? You're my brother. I love you, and I need you to fight this thing for me. Fight it!"

This time his words weren't clinically calculated to press his brother's buttons; they were desperate, from the heart.

It took only a moment, and then he saw Dean's uncertainly melt into understanding, and the shimmer jolted as if an electric current had run through it. Dean had begun to fight back. Sam watched in helpless agony as his brother writhed in pain, struggling mentally and physically against the spirit's control.

Sam felt rather than heard someone come into the room behind him, barely registered his father's gruff, "What the hell!" He didn't have time to wonder what Dad was doing there, his whole attention focused on the battle playing out before him, and he held the gun steady, ready to shoot the instant the knife dropped from Dean's hand.

It seemed to Sam as if the whole thing was happening in slow motion. Dean suddenly screamed, face screwed up in agony. Then the mist began to separate itself from him, and at the same moment his fist opened and the knife dropped to the ground. Sam tightened his finger around the trigger. He forced himself to wait until the mist had completely left his brother, coalescing into the cloud he had seen the night before, then fired directly into its center. It dissipated instantly, but Sam kept the gun raised, just in case.

Somehow Dean was still on his feet, hands clasped around his head, face contorted in pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw their father take a step forward.

"Dean. Son!"

In those two words, Sam perceived a world of fear and pain and love. Dean looked at their father for a brief moment before his knees buckled and his eyes rolled back in his head. Sam leapt forward as his brother crumpled, catching him and bearing him to the ground in one quick move.

He supported Dean against his chest, checking the pulse in his neck with a shaking hand, relieved to find it fast but steady. The cuts on Dean's chest bled freely, but didn't seem to be too deep. Sam let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding and clutched his brother more tightly, resting his head for a moment on the short brown hair.

He'd come very close to losing his big brother – again. But Dean was alive, and Sam vowed that he'd do whatever it took to keep him that way.


	12. Chapter 12

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Twelve**

Dean was still unconscious when they carried him into the motel room and gently laid him on the bed. Sam started pulling his boots off with an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu.

Looking over his shoulder, he said tersely, "Dad, the first aid kit's in the bathroom."

When Dad returned with the kit, Sam began to rifle through it for the items he'd need. He glanced up at his father, standing on the other side of the bed. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Dad hesitated.

"Dad?"

"I didn't tell you the truth when I said I was heading out in a different direction. I knew Manson wouldn't give up so easily, and I thought he was most likely to come after you two. So I followed you."

Sam looked at him sharply. "You've been following us?"

"Yeah. I've been keeping an eye out for Manson, but so far there's no sign. I think I might have been wrong about him."

Sam thought about the implications of what his father was telling him. "So you were following us last night, when we went to the cottage?"

Dad nodded. "Yeah."

"Then you saw me pretty much carry Dean out of there? And you did nothing to help?"

"He was still conscious, Sam," Dad said with a note of impatience. "You seemed to have everything under control. I didn't want to show myself in case Manson was around. I was trying to protect you."

Sam said nothing, but he could feel the familiar anger starting to build up inside. He'd heard that excuse too many times before. He busied himself getting the supplies he needed out of the first aid kit, and it was Dad who spoke next.

"Sam, you want to tell me just what happened back there?"

Sam picked up a pair of scissors and began carefully cutting away Dean's T-shirt, already ruined by the wide gashes where his brother had cut himself. The sight brought back an image of Dean holding the knife, slowly drawing it across his chest. Then more images, eight months old but still clear in his mind: Dean, pinned to a wall, face contorted in agony, blood pouring from his chest, soaking into his shirt. Sam shuddered and forced the memories away.

He continued his work on Dean's shirt while relating the story as succinctly as he could. He paused and looked up at Dad as he finished. "This is my fault. Dean's been behaving strangely all day. I should have put it together sooner."

Dad glanced at Dean and sighed. "It's not your fault, Sam," he said, his voice gruff but unusually gentle. "How could you have known it would choose your brother?"

Sam turned disbelieving eyes on his father. "You have to ask that?"

Dad frowned. "What?"

Sam clenched his jaw. Much as he wanted to lash out, scream at Dad for being so obtuse, he knew this wasn't the time for a family fight. He took a moment to put the scissors away and took a few deep breaths before speaking again. "Look, Dad, someone needs to get back to that cottage and burn those bones. I'm worried the ghost still has some kind of hold over Dean."

After a moment's hesitation, John nodded. "All right." He glanced out of the window. "I'd rather leave it a few hours, but I guess it's dark enough. Where's the body buried?"

"In the cottage grounds. Mr. Warrington said they buried him right outside the family room – the one where we found Dean."

"Okay. You stay here with your brother and I'll take care of it. We'll talk when I get back."

Dad was halfway to the door when he paused and looked back. "Sam?"

"What?"

"Get some rest. You look like death."

Then he was gone. Sam rolled his eyes at the inappropriateness of the analogy, although it was probably fairly close to the truth, if he looked anything like he felt. But now was not the time to rest. Not while Dean lay there so still and pale, and not until Dean woke up and reassured Sam that he was himself again.

Sam concentrated on cleaning his brother's new wounds. Removing the ruined shirt had exposed the full extent of the damage. As he'd noted earlier, none of the gashes were too deep or required stitching.

He expected Dean to wake when he cleaned the wounds with antiseptic because it must have hurt like hell, but his brother didn't even stir. Sam fixed dressings over the cuts, fished out the strongest painkillers they had and put them ready on the side table in case Dean needed them when he woke up. He filled a glass with water and set it next to the pills. Dean looked a little flushed, and a hand to his forehead confirmed that he was running a slight fever. Sam frowned. It might simply be an aftereffect of the prolonged encounter with the ghost, but he'd need to monitor the wounds in case it was a symptom of the early stage of infection. He filled the coffee percolator's glass jug with tepid water from the bathroom and soaked a small hand towel, wiping it gently over Dean's face and neck to cool him down.

Having done all he could for now, he dragged a chair across the room to the side of Dean's bed and slumped into it as exhaustion rolled over him.

With nothing practical to occupy him, Sam was left with his thoughts and the recurring image of Dean, eyes wide and desperate, holding the knife over his heart. What had Dean been feeling, what deeply buried emotions had the ghost stirred up to cause such despair that he would choose to —

Sam couldn't even bring himself to think what Dean had been about to do. If he'd arrived just a few minutes later…

Beside him, Dean stirred and groaned. His eyes opened a slit.

Sam leaned forward. "Hey, dude," he said softly.

"Sam?"

"I'm here. It's okay, Dean. You're okay."

"Sammy." A whisper laced with fear and confusion.

Sam leaned in closer, laying a hand on his brother's forearm. "Yeah. Relax, bro. Everything's fine."

Dean groaned again and his eyes shut, only to flutter open a moment later. "What… what happened? What did I…"

"You had another run in with your favorite ghost. How do you feel?"

"Head… hurts like a bitch."

Sam winced in sympathy. The previous night's experience had left Dean with a thumping headache; it made sense that this time it would be worse. He pushed some painkillers into his brother's hand and passed him the glass of water, supporting Dean's head as he obediently raised it to drink.

As Dean took the pills, déjà vu hit Sam once again. It felt like a million years ago, but it had been only two nights since he'd last fed his brother painkillers. Now Dean was hurt – again — and Sam was getting really tired of wondering how his brother was going to make it through the day.

"Thanks." Dean's eyes moved, catching sight of the new dressings on his chest, and he frowned, lifting a hand to touch them. Sam saw the exact moment when memory caught up with him, and Dean's eyes widened in anguish. "Oh, God. I… I did this… I…"

"Shh. Shhh, Dean, it's all right." Sam squeezed Dean's wrist in reassurance. "You weren't yourself. The spirit made you do it."

"I… I tried to… I wanted to… to kill myself."

Sam felt a lump form in his throat at his brother's distress. "I know," he said firmly. "But that wasn't you, Dean."

"Everything was so fucked up," Dean whispered. "I just wanted it all to be over. I… Sam, am I losing my mind?"

Sam's heart constricted at the naked fear in Dean's eyes, a sight he had rarely seen. He reached out a hand, cupped his brother's jaw and looked him firmly in the eyes. "You're not losing your mind. The spirit – it got you when you were down, it took your feelings and it twisted them into something else. But Dean, you fought it and you beat it. You have to remember that. Just trust me, okay?"

After a moment, Dean said, "Okay," and his eyes began to drift shut. Sam thought he'd fallen asleep, but his eyes flickered open again. "Did I… was Dad here?"

"Yeah, Dean. He was here. He'll be back soon."

Dean looked like he was about to quiz Sam further, then his eyes drifted shut. "Tired," he murmured.

"Go back to sleep, then. It's going to be all right, I promise."

This time when Dean closed his eyes they stayed closed, and within a few moments he was asleep. Sam adjusted the comforter around him, and then settled himself back on his chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face, thinking that a cup of strong coffee would be a good idea right now. He was tired but didn't want to sleep, worried that the effects of the ghost on Dean would linger, although Dean's anguish when he remembered trying to kill himself reassured Sam that he was no longer suicidal. He shuddered at the memory of Dean's agony. He was used to dealing with Dean in many different moods. His brother could be exuberant, obnoxious, smug, and argumentative – the list was endless. But a lost, insecure Dean was a mystery.

Eventually, he made himself a strong cup of coffee and then settled back in the chair. There was nothing he could do now but wait.


	13. Chapter 13

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Thirteen**

Dean was still asleep and Sam still sat stiffly in the chair beside him when their father returned almost four hours later. When he heard the door lock click and his father walked into the room, Sam got to his feet.

"Dad! Where have you been?"

He had started to worry after the first couple of hours and tried Dad's cell, but it had been switched off, as usual. He had been convinced that something had gone wrong.

John closed the door quietly behind him and walked across the room, coming to stand beside Sam. "How's your brother?"

Sam glanced down at Dean, who had been sleeping soundly for the past couple of hours. "He woke up awhile ago. He was pretty out of it, said his head was hurting. He remembered what… he tried to do. He was upset, but I don't think he'll try to hurt himself again."

John stood and looked down at his eldest son for a long moment. Then he turned away and sank down onto Sam's bed, rubbing his hands over his eyes."

"Dad? What took you so long?"

"When I drove past the cottage, the sheriff's car was parked outside. I heard him talking to a neighbor – turns out she heard noises from the cottage earlier, asked him to come and look around. I got the feeling he didn't believe her, but he went through the motions. After he left I waited for a couple of hours, until the neighbor went to bed and I was sure he wasn't coming back."

"But you got the job done?" Sam asked anxiously.

"Yeah, son. Jamie won't be hurting anyone else."

Sam sighed in relief.

John glanced across at Dean again, then turned to Sam. "I should get moving."

Sam looked at him in utter disbelief. "You're taking off again? Now? You're leaving before Dean even wakes up?"

Dad's voice took on a familiar note of impatience. "I told you it isn't safe for us to be together with Manson out there. I need to find him."

"Yeah, that'd be right. Because nothing's more important than the hunt, right?" Sam couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Dad's face darkened. "I'm doing this to protect you and Dean. You got a problem with that?"

"A problem?" Sam laughed. "Dad, I wouldn't know where to begin."

Dad's eyes narrowed and Sam could see the familiar anger mounting. "Sam, if you have something to say to me, why don't you just come out and say it?"

"You sure?" Sam spat, voice rising as he continued. "Because you might not like what I have to say!" His eyes flicked to Dean as he saw his brother stir.

"Keep it down!" Dad snapped.

Sam glared at his father, but moved away from bed, gesturing for Dad to follow. Then he went on in a lower voice, "I know I deserve my fair share of the blame for what happened to Dean, but I'm not the only one at fault here. Why do you think Dean was fair game for the ghost?"

He watched his father closely, but Dad's face was expressionless. "Back in that warehouse, you told him you were going to sacrifice him to save me. You showed him he wasn't important. Then you just left without any explanation, nothing. How did you expect him to deal with that?"

His father looked at him strangely. "Dean knows why I made that choice."

"It doesn't matter what your reasons were. You still chose me. No wonder he thinks you love me more than him."

"What?" Dad was visibly startled. "Why would he think that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sam said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Maybe because you walked out on him two years ago with no explanation. Maybe because you didn't even bother to call when I told you he was dying."

"That's not fair!" John snapped. "I wanted to come... it wasn't safe--"

"You could have called! At the very least, you could have sent a text!" Sam's voice was rising again, and with a quick glance towards the bed, he brought the volume down with an effort. "Then, in the cabin, he heard your voice telling him he isn't needed, that I'm the favored one--"

"That was The Demon talking."

"And all demons lie, right?" Sam knew where his father was headed. "But how could Dean be sure it wasn't picking up some of that stuff from your mind? And then you choose to sacrifice his life for mine. He's followed you blindly for years, never questioning, always obeying your orders, but he isn't stupid, Dad. He's finally done the math, and it doesn't add up!"

He was faced off with his father now, the two standing nose to nose, fists clenched. Then, suddenly, Dad seemed to deflate. He sank down onto Sam's bed.

"Is that what you think?" Dad asked, uncharacteristically hesitant. "What you both think? That I don't care? Sam, you and Dean – you're all I have, and I love you both."

Sam felt his own anger abate in the light of his father's uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Don't you see how hard it for us to believe that?" he asked softly. "You never tell us what you're doing, you never explain anything. I know you chose me for 'practical' reasons--"

Dad shook his head. "That's not true. Son, I didn't tell you the truth. You jumped to that conclusion and I let you believe it because it was easier. I chose you because Dean…"

"Because Dean what?"

His father closed his eyes. "Sam, his whole life your brother's looked out for you and protected you. It's part of who he is and I encouraged that, because I knew I wouldn't always be there for you. What do you think it would have done to Dean if I'd chosen you to die?"

That stopped Sam in his tracks. "So," he said quietly, "you think I'd have dealt with Dean's death better than he would with mine?"

"In a way. Sam, you have to understand something. You're the youngest. You'll always be Dean's little brother, and nothing can change that. Don't you see? I love you both, but I knew what Dean would have put himself through if I'd made a different call."

Sam fell silent. He knew his father was right about Dean's love for him. It was what had finally forced Dean to fight against the ghost's control. The stark truth was that Dean didn't value his own life as much as his brother's, and Sam knew that. And so did their father.

Dean never would have forgiven himself or Dad had Sam lost his life in that warehouse.

Sam hated being the youngest, but he couldn't change it, and he couldn't change his brother's fierce protectiveness. He studied Dad's face for a moment. His father seemed genuinely devastated by what he'd said about Dean. Surely Dad had known how Dean had felt? Surely he'd realized?

Dad glanced across at Dean, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. "You're right, Sam. This _is_ my fault. I knew he was hurt, but Dean's strong, he always knows how to cope. I thought he understood."

"You should have talked to him, explained."

"Yeah, I should have. I should have done a lot of things, Sam. I know I've been a lousy father. I've brought you boys up knowing how to protect yourselves, equipped to hunt down evil, but somewhere down the line I forgot how to be a father."

Startled by the admission, Sam flashed back to another conversation in another motel room, when they'd been on the trail of the vampires who'd killed Daniel Elkins. His father, regret etched on his face, had said_, "You got to understand something. After your mother passed, all I saw was evil, everywhere. And all I cared about was keeping you boys alive. I wanted you prepared—ready. So, somewhere along the line, I, uh….I stopped being your father. And I—I became your drill sergeant."_

The trilling of Dad's cell brought Sam back to the present. Dad flicked it open and glanced at the caller name. "I have to take this." He opened the door, stepped outside and pulled it closed behind him.

Still the secrets, Sam mused.

Dropping back into the chair beside his brother's bed he sighed, thinking that it was getting more and more uncomfortable the longer he sat in it. He put a hand on Dean's forehead; still a little warm, but no worse. He almost jumped out of his skin when a voice said, "Touching the merchandise'll cost, you, dude."

"Dean?"

Dean opened his eyes. "Expecting someone else?"

Dean seemed more alert this time. Far too alert for someone who had just woken up. Sam narrowed his eyes as he observed his brother. "Dean, how long have you been awake?"

Dean held his eyes. "Long enough."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Dean started to push himself upright, then his brow creased and he sank back down onto the pillow with a groan.

"Dean?"

"I'm okay. Just dizzy," Dean murmured.

Sam remembered that he'd been dizzy the night before as well; probably a result of the ghost messing with his head. "Just lie back and take it easy, then," Sam ordered. "Want some water first?"

"Yeah." Dean carefully raised himself up on one arm and took a few sips before sinking down again.

"Apart from the dizziness, how are you feeling?"

Dean groaned. "Like an evil son of a bitch ate me for dinner and shit me out after."

Sam couldn't help but grin at the colorful metaphor, but it stood in stark contrast to the weakness evident in Dean's voice. The grin faded as Sam studied his brother, not bothering to hide his concern. Dean looked pale to the point of grayness, his features etched with exhaustion. Sam had noted how even drinking the glass of water had been an effort. The ghost had really done a number on him. But his eyes no longer held that terrible look of despair and defeat. Now they were just tired and a little sad.

"Why don't you try and get some more sleep?" Sam suggested.

"Tell me about the spirit – about Jamie."

Sam had been waiting for the question. "I'll tell you everything, but it can wait until you've rested up a bit."

"No, it can't. I need to know, Sam." Dean's voice was weak but resolute, and Sam understood his need to know the truth.

Sam sighed. "All right. Well, after I talked to you on the cell, I got in to see Martin Warrington and he told me about his sons. He said that the younger brother, Jamie, fell apart when Brad died. When he killed himself, Warrington read back over his journal. It was all stuff about his life not being worth living and how he just wanted to die and be with Brad." He paused to gauge Dean's reaction. Dean's eyes were closed, but his right hand had tightened into a fist. "Anyway, he told me that Jamie was buried at the cottage, and I worked out that Jamie must be the ghost. He killed himself to be with Brad, but he got stuck in the house instead. I guess he was lonely, looking for people to keep him company."

Dean opened his eyes. "And he wanted people like him, people who thought their lives weren't worth living?"

"Yeah," Sam said carefully. "But, the people he chose, I don't think they were suicidal, Dean. I think they all had things in their lives they were dealing with, so they were emotionally vulnerable. Jamie – the spirit – he needed them to understand him, so somehow he magnified their pain to the point where they felt they had no choice but to take their own lives." Sam swallowed past a sudden knot in his throat. It had been easy before to talk objectively about the victims; it was not so easy now that his brother had become one of them.

Dean said nothing, so Sam continued. "I think that when it first tried to take you in the cottage, it left something – some thoughts – in your mind, and that's why you weren't... yourself yesterday." He paused. "Dean, why did you go back to the cottage?"

Dean frowned. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I felt… I just knew that I had to be there."

He said no more and Sam didn't push. He could guess the thoughts that had been running through Dean's mind. He need only recall the memory of Dean sitting on the bed that morning, knife in hand.

Even before Dean had returned to the cottage, he had been thinking about ending his life.

Dean shifted position and a grimace of pain crossed his face. He grunted at Sam's concerned expression. "Back's still sore, that's all."

Sam let that go and there was silence for a few moments until Dean asked, "Why's Dad here?"

Sam relayed their father's explanation, which brought his thoughts back to the earlier conversation. "So, you heard… everything we said?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Hard not to - you weren't exactly whispering."

Sam wasn't sure what to say. He'd wanted Dean to hear the truth, but directly from their father, not secondhand through an almighty argument

"Don't worry your freaky little head," Dean said, perhaps sensing his mixed feelings. "But you two gotta stop fighting like that every time you meet up. It's getting old, Sam."

Sam was saved from answering when the door opened and their father walked back in, shoving his cell back into the pocket of his jeans. He stopped abruptly when he saw Dean awake.

Seeing his father, Dean made an effort to sit up, and Sam resignedly helped him, plumping up the pillow and easing Dean back against it. He couldn't blame Dean for his reluctance to look weak in front of Dad. Dad had never had much sympathy with weakness or injury, expecting both sons to jump right back up as soon as possible, whether they were fully recovered or not.

Dad hesitated, then walked slowly across the room as Sam stood up, relinquishing his seat. He sat down heavily, leaning forward with elbows on knees, hands loosely linked.

"How are you feeling, son?"

"Better, thanks."

Dad nodded. "Head?"

"Down to a regular headache."

"He's feeling really dizzy," Sam put in, ignoring Dean's frown.

"I guess you're pretty wiped out, too?" Dad asked.

"Yeah."

"You can't tangle with a ghost the way you did without some side effects. They'll pass. You need to get some more rest, son."

He looked down at his clasped hands for a long moment, then seemed to gather himself and looked up at his eldest. "Dean," he began, in the same hesitant tone he'd used earlier. "Son, we need to talk, I need to explain--"

"Dad, it's okay," Dean interrupted. "You don't have to explain anything. I understand."

Dad shook his head. "I'm not sure you do."

"I heard. I heard you and Sam talking," Dean said quietly, eyes fixed on his father's face.

Sam watched Dad's reaction to that as first irritation and then relief crossed his features.

"I meant what I said to Sam, Dean. I know I've made mistakes, but you boys – you mean everything to me. Both of you."

He steadily held Dean's gaze as he spoke, and Dean nodded.

"I get it. There's nothing more needs saying."

"We're okay, then, you and me?" Dad asked.

"Yeah, we're good."

Listening to the exchange, Sam felt like strangling the two of them. If there were ever a competition for people who refused to discuss their feelings, they'd come in first and second. Yet… maybe, for them, it was enough.

Dad cleared his throat. "Listen, I just got a call from a contact. He says Manson's been sighted just outside Buena Vista. I need to leave, catch up with him and find out what he's planning."

"Dad--" Sam started to protest, but Dean interrupted.

"No, he's right, Sam. He should go."

Sam shook his head, feeling his jaw clench in response to his frustration. "We keep coming back to this. I thought we decided that we're stronger together than apart."

"Sometimes we are," their father agreed. "But there are times when it's best that we separate, and this is one of those times. You'll just have to trust me."

Trust. That was what it always came down to with their father. To trust that he knew what he was doing. To trust that he was telling the truth when he said he loved them. Sam was sure that for Dean, it would always come down to a simple choice in the end. To trust Dad and follow orders, or to turn his back.

For Sam, it had never been that simple. He loved his father and he could accept that Dad loved him, and Dean, too. What he couldn't understand was that even now, even after Dad had admitted that he'd made mistakes, he still wasn't willing to change, to try to make things right. To keep the family together.

But he held his tongue, because this was Dean's call.

"Go, Dad," Dean said. "Just… keep in touch, okay?"

Dad nodded, and swallowed. He seemed to be about to say something, but instead simply reached out and gripped Dean's shoulder for a long moment. Then he turned and walked quickly out of the door.

Sam followed him, catching up as he was getting into his truck.

"Dad— "

"Not now, Sam." Dad's expression was unreadable. "I know you think I'm making the wrong call. I just hope one day I can prove you wrong. You just have to try and trust me on this one."

"Fine." For Dean's sake, he'd try. "You'll call when you find Manson?"

"Yeah. In the meantime, watch your backs. And Sam?"

"What?"

"Take care of your brother."

Sam stood and watched with mixed emotions as the truck disappeared down the highway.


	14. Chapter 14

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Fourteen**

When he went back inside, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand to his head, swaying slightly.

"Dean! What d'you think you're doing?"

Sam resisted the urge to rush forward to support his brother, even though Dean looked like a breath of wind would blow him over. He knew how much Dean hated him fussing.

Dean looked up and quickly closed his eyes. "Damn, I wish the room would stop spinning."

"You need to lie down. You have to rest--"

"I can rest later. I want to see the grave."

Sam was startled. "You… what? Jamie's grave?"

Dean nodded, and then winced at the movement.

"Dean, why?"

"I just… I don't know, Sam. I just… I need to do this."

Sam looked at his brother in concern. There was no way he was letting Dean do anything but get ten hours of sleep. He could barely sit upright, never mind take a walk to a grave. "Dean," he said quietly, "I don't think you're up to this now. It's the middle of the night and the sheriff might still be prowling around. We can go tomorrow."

"I need to go now. Look, Sam, I'm not even gonna pretend I'm okay. I know I'm a train wreck. But I need to do this. Will you take me or not?"

Dean's question held a note of characteristic stubbornness, but also a tinge of desperation. He might as well have said, "Don't make me beg, Sam." By now, under normal circumstances, Dean would have bolted for the door and collapsed in a heap, and Sam would be scraping him up off the carpet. But it was a measure of Dean's current condition that he'd asked for help.

That clinched it for Sam. He didn't understand why Dean wanted to see the grave and neither, obviously, did Dean. But if that's what his brother needed to give him some closure, then Sam would make it happen.

"Okay, I'll take you," he said. "Just rest there a minute and I'll get your clothes."

Dean flashed him a look of gratitude and sat quietly with his eyes closed until Sam handed him his jeans and a fresh T-shirt. When Dean bent down to pull his jeans on and almost passed out, Sam was tempted to reverse his decision and manhandle his idiot brother back to bed. He chose to ignore the temptation, though, wordlessly taking the jeans out of Dean's hands and helping him pull them on in as matter-of-fact way as possible. He sympathized with Dean's muttered, "This sucks big time." Dean didn't do weak, and he didn't do dependent.

Dean managed the T-shirt himself, but faltered when he got to his boots. Again, Sam took over as if dressing his brother was something he did every day.

A memory struck him and he looked up, hoping to take Dean's mind off his embarrassment.

"Remember when you taught me to tie my shoelaces?"

Dean huffed a small laugh. "Yeah. Thought you'd never get it. Then once you knew how, you went round practicing double knots on everything you could find. Including the TV cable— "

"—And the garden hose." Sam grinned at the memory.

"You know, you were always Brain Boy with the books, but you were a freakin' girl at anything practical."

"Was not!" Sam exclaimed indignantly at the blatant exaggeration, eliciting a low chuckle. He finished with the boots, picked up Dean's jacket and handed it to his brother.

"Were, too," Dean argued, taking the jacket. "Shoelaces, your bicycle, learning to swim – took me hours to drum the simplest thing into your thick skull. I reckon I deserve some kind of endurance medal."

Sam looked up. "Yeah, you do," he said seriously. He wanted Dean to understand just how important it had been to have his big brother around when he was a kid. It wasn't something he'd ever thought about then, but he'd had plenty of time lately to reflect that it was Dean, not Dad, who featured in most of his childhood's happiest and most memorable incidents.

Dean flushed. "Don't be a jerk," he said gruffly, looking away as he shrugged into his jacket.

Sam figured he'd made his point. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah."

Sam nodded. "Okay. Then let's go do this."


	15. Chapter 15

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Part Fifteen**

The night sky was clear. Myriad stars twinkled in the inky darkness, and the full moon clearly illuminated Rose Cottage and its grounds.

Dean felt like crap. The anvil in his head still pounded away, the fresh cuts on his chest burned and his bruised back still ached. Not to mention the dizziness that he hadn't been able to shake. He'd had no choice but to accept Sam's supportive arm around his shoulders as they'd walked to and from the Impala. He would have fallen on his ass without the support.

Standing here at the foot of Jamie Warrington's grave, he felt weaker than he ever had in his life. Just being upright proved an effort when all he really wanted was to lie down somewhere and sleep. Dad had said that this was a residual effect from his encounter with the ghost and he hoped to hell it was true, because he wasn't ready to get used to this feeling.

Jamie had been dead for two years, but thanks to Dad's earlier work, and despite his attempts to leave the flower bed the way he had found it, the earth still looked freshly dug. Dean just hoped the sheriff didn't come back for a closer look at the grounds. It was bad enough that they had to leave without letting the victims' families and friends know the truth, without adding an unexplained desecration of Jamie's grave to Martin Warrington's burdens. Dean shivered, suddenly cold despite the mild night, and pulled his jacket further around him.

It was strange, because although he hadn't truly felt the presence of the spirit in his mind yesterday, he still felt a strong connection to Jamie Warrington and a deep sadness for a kid who'd been so desperate, so lonely, that he'd chosen to take his own life. Maybe it was because the spirit had somehow twisted his own feelings so much that he had felt the same emotions, the same despair that Jamie had experienced. Whatever the reason, he found it hard to feel anything but sorrow, despite the fact that Jamie's lonely spirit had caused three people to die.

He no longer felt the terrible despair that had led him to try to take his own life, but the memory of it was clear. The solution of killing himself to escape from the pain had seemed so obvious. So logical. He'd been profoundly relieved when Sam had explained that the spirit's influence had made him feel that way. Yet he couldn't deny the underlining pain that had allowed the spirit to get a grip on his mind, and a small part of him wondered if perhaps he'd been closer to genuinely feeling those things than he would ever admit. And that frightened him.

He knew it would be a long time before he fully recovered from his ordeal, but despite everything, he felt more at peace than he had for months. The tight ball of hurt and tension that had taken up residence in his gut the night the demon had possessed Dad had gone, leaving behind just a dull ache.

As he stood quietly at the grave, he turned over in his mind the conversation he'd overheard back at the motel. He'd never allowed himself to admit just how important it was to him to know that Dad cared. He had always sought his father's respect and trust, the two things he knew he could earn if he worked hard enough. But for a long time he hadn't allowed himself to expect his father's love, because deep down, he was afraid that he was asking for something Dad couldn't give. Then Dad's words to Sam had turned everything around. _"Sam, you and Dean – you're all I have, and I love you both." _

Although … it wasn't just those words that had revealed the truth. It was also the moment in the cottage when, through his pain and confusion, he'd seen his father and heard his anguished cry. _"Dean. Son!"_ He'd known instinctively that the naked love and concern in those words were real, and that, for him, was enough.

There were still things unresolved. Dad wasn't perfect. He'd made mistakes, and he probably would again. But at the end of the day, he'd done what he thought best for his boys.

And the truth was, Dean understood why he'd made the choices he had.

Sam had taken a few steps back when they'd found the grave, allowing Dean some space, and he was grateful. Yet it was good to know that his brother was there, hovering just out of sight, ready to rush forward to support him if he needed it. He usually found that protective side of Sam irritating, because that wasn't how it worked. Big brothers were there to protect younger brothers, not the other way around. He was beginning to understand, though, that there were times when it was okay to reverse roles for a little while.

The rustling of an animal or bird in a nearby bush startled him. He looked up too quickly and a wave of dizziness overtook him. Tiny lights sparkled at the edges of his vision and he felt his knees buckling. Then there was an arm around his waist and another on his shoulder, holding him upright.

"Easy," Sam said softly.

He leaned back into Sam's solid warmth, allowing his brother to take his weight, knowing that Sam wouldn't let him fall. Sam tightened his grip and Dean closed his eyes, allowing himself the momentary luxury of surrendering control. When the dizziness passed he reluctantly pushed himself upright and Sam's grip loosened.

"You okay?" Sam's question was laced with concern.

Dean swallowed. "Yeah. Moved my head too fast, that's all."

"Think it's time we were heading back?"

"Soon."

"Okay."

Sam let go and took a step to the side, giving him space, and strangely, Dean found he missed the contact. They stood side by side for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Dean could tell that Sam had something he wanted to say and was searching for the right words. He waited patiently until Sam cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Dean, I want you to know… I meant what I said yesterday."

"Which bit?" Dean asked flippantly. "The bit where you said I was selfish, or the bit where you said I was pathetic?"

As a joke, it fell flatter than a pancake. Sam looked stricken, and Dean mentally kicked himself. His natural inclination was to use humor to relieve an emotionally charged situation, but it often backfired, and he should have known better than to try it with Sam right now.

He took a good look at his brother. He wasn't the only one who looked like crap, but then Sam probably hadn't got much sleep recently, what with the full-time role of nursemaid and psychotherapist to an idiot big brother.

Sam's jaw was working, and he looked close to tears. For the first time Dean saw the past few days through Sam's eyes and realized just how hard it must have been for Sam to watch his brother falling apart before his eyes.

"Sorry," Dean said gently. "That wasn't funny. You saved my life back there, you know?"

Sam shook his head. "You did it yourself, Dean. I just goaded you into fighting. And don't change the subject. I meant the bit about _this_ being my life now. You and me, what we do. I'm not planning to leave."

It was the first time in a long while that either of them had deliberately brought up the subject. Dean, for his part, had been afraid of what Sam might say. Now, he found himself saying words he'd never have imagined . "I hear you, Sam, and I appreciate it. I do. But I need you to know something, too. I'm not going to hold you to that. We don't know what's going to happen, and if down the line you want a different life, then I'm not going to hold you back."

Sam looked like he was going to protest, and then he slowly nodded. "Okay. But know this, Dean. Whatever life I choose, I'll need you to be part of it. Whatever happens, we'll work it out."

Dean struggled to speak around the sudden lump in his throat. "Okay."

Sam wasn't finished.

"One more thing. I understand about the big-brother gig, I do. But looking out for each other, feeling responsible for each other – that goes both ways, Dean. And I need you to know that you don't always have to be the strong one, that sometimes it's okay to let go, you know?"

This time, Dean really couldn't speak as Sam reflected back to him the thoughts that had crossed his mind only moments ago, so he simply nodded. Sam stared at him intently and must have seen what he needed.

"Okay," Sam said.

Dean decided that as he seemed to have landed in a full-blown Hallmark scene, he might as well finish it. "Uhh, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"All the crap you've had to put up with over the past couple of days."

Sam glanced at him sharply, brow furrowing. "None of that's your fault, Dean."

"I'm just sayin', I know it's been tough on you. And I want it to be over, for both of us."

Sam let out a big sigh. "Yeah. Me, too."

Dean looked back at the grave. "You know, I've never really got how someone could be so desperate, could hate their life so much, that they'd kill themselves." He hesitated, glancing across at Sam. "Now I do."

Sam's expression darkened in fear. Realizing what he was thinking, Dean went on hurriedly. "Hey, don't get me wrong, I don't mean I still want to… But when the ghost – I understood what he was feeling, that's all."

Sam ran a hand through his hair and gave him a half-smile. "Sorry. It's just that you scared the shit out of me yesterday, Dean."

"Yeah, I know."

"Because much as I'm looking forward to inheriting your tape collection one day…"

Dean smiled at the lame joke. "Sam, look. I know I was in a bad place, and that's why the ghost went for me. But whatever happens – I'm not going to kill myself, got it?" He held his brother's eyes. "I don't want to die. I've got too much worth living for, right?"

Sam gazed at him for a long moment. Then he said softly, "Right. And don't ever forget it."


	16. Chapter 16

**Worth Living For**

by Swanseajill

**Epilogue**

Sam glanced across at Dean, still asleep in the seat beside him. The visit to Jamie Warrington's grave had wiped him out, and when they'd returned to the motel room he'd lain down _"for a quick nap_" and slept solidly and nightmare-free for nine hours. When he'd woken he'd refused Sam's suggestion that they stay another day so he could rest some more.

"_I just want to put this place behind us, Sam."_

Sam had understood that. They had packed their bags in relative silence, but it was clear that Dean's mood had lightened considerably. He'd taken the passenger seat without complaining, and fallen asleep almost as soon as they'd left the town limits.

Sam had now been driving for four hours straight, and he needed a break. He pulled into the parking lot of a diner on the outskirts of the next town and killed the engine.

Dean stirred and opened his eyes. He stifled a yawn, rubbing his eyes with a fist. "Must have dropped off for a minute."

Sam regarded him with amusement. "Something like that. Man, you've been asleep for like, four hours."

Dean's eyes widened. _"Four hours? _What the hell's wrong with me?"

"I guess you just needed to sleep it off."

Dean snorted.

"Anyway, I could use a break. You hungry?"

Dean considered. "You know what? I could kill for a burger. Want me to drive for a while?"

Sam grinned. "As soon as you can show me you can stay awake for more than ten minutes at a time, you can drive. Anyway, I'm not complaining. It's been really peaceful, and the radio stations round here play some good country music."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Hope you haven't had the window open, dude. What about my reputation?"

Sam ignored him and got out of the car. He waited as Dean stiffly levered himself out of the passenger seat and walked around the car to join him.

Dean looked around. "Where is here, anyway?"

"Just outside Goodwater, Arizona."

Dean frowned. "What are we doing in Arizona?"

Sam tried to look innocent. "Think back, bro. When I asked where you wanted to go, you said, 'Anywhere that isn't here.' Goodwater, Arizona, fits the bill."

"Why Arizona?"

"Because it's on the way to California."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "What's in California? You find a new job?"

"Nope. Big brother, you and I are taking a vacation." Sam waited in slight trepidation for Dean's reaction. The last few times he'd suggested a vacation he'd been met with a blank stare and a "Why?" But he was sure that a vacation was what they both needed, and he intended to make sure that his brother had the time of his life. It had been a while since he'd seen Dean's cocksure, confident grin. He wanted it back in place.

He wanted to see Dean happy.

"A vacation?" Dean asked doubtfully.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yes, a vacation. You've heard of them, right?"

Dean grinned. "I've heard people talking, yeah."

"Well, then."

"Why California?"

Sam sighed. He was sure his brother hadn't been this dense before his encounter with the spirit. "Think about it, Dean. Sun, sea, surf…" He paused, gauging Dean's reaction.

Dean folded his arms and cocked his head. "Go on."

"Plenty of beer and pool halls…"

Dean's lips quirked up.

"Beautiful babes in skimpy bikinis…"

Dean's eyes drifted shut, a blissful look spreading over his face. "Say no more. Lead me on to paradise, little brother."

"You're on," Sam said happily, starting off towards the diner. "After we get something to eat."

A moment later he heard an anguished cry.

"Sam!"

What now? Sam turned. Dean had stopped dead in his tracks, a horrified look on his face.

"Dean, what?"

Dean paused. "Will I have to wear shorts?"

**The End**


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